


Tongues of Fire

by FieryEclipse



Series: Tongues of Fire [1]
Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brave New World - Freeform, Danger, Heroes Reborn - Freeform, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Violence, Volume 6, canonical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-26 23:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 292,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7595302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryEclipse/pseuds/FieryEclipse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No one will believe me.” Sylar stated with a patronizing loft of one heavy eyebrow.</p><p>“Us.” Peter corrected. “No one will believe us.”<br/>_____________________________________________</p><p>A girl jumped. Abilities were revealed. The world is now a more dangerous place than ever. Two heroes will take it upon themselves to save as many lives as possible, even if the bounty on their heads won't exactly help them along the way... </p><p>This is my take on Volume 6 “Brave New World” focusing on Peter Petrelli and Sylar, but with frequent appearances from other characters from the show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Steam. Hissing loudly, billowing in clouds and consuming the vast, dim space. Heat ravaged the place, creeping through the air and soaking up all the oxygen. Rusted pipes lined every wall, every surface, casting an amber glow around the whistling, straining structure as it crumbled at the edges. A faint alarm wailed uselessly in the distance, a warning, a call to escape before it was too late. But it had been singing for a while now, and the chance to escape was long past.

Metal walkways and platforms criss-crossed through the chamber, climbing high up the vast height of the tower. The air only became thinner, so hot that it almost physically hurt to breathe, and the machinery and pipes squealed in pain as they disintegrated and broke down around four figures shrouded in the midst of it all.

“I'm only going to say this once, Peter: move.”

“No.” The young man declared, defiantly holding his ground even as his voice threatened to waver. He glared down the barrel of the gun and straight through those horn-rimmed glasses, sustaining his eye contact with the middle-aged man behind them. “No.” Peter repeated, lowering his voice and brow into a serious, harsh line.

Noah Bennet's face rippled with anger before he once again recalled his standard, expressionless mask. He spoke steadily, almost calmly, but his tone was somehow loud enough to compete with the ringing apparatus that was straining on all sides. “He's a killer, Peter. A walking disaster. Just look around you: all this? This is _his_ doing.”

“No!” Peter recited for a third time. “It wasn't him! I'm not gonna let you take him!” He tried his best to mirror the calm authority of the man opposite, but his heart was hammering against his ribcage and he was physically shivering under the unbearable heat of this place, roiling through his body and dewing sweat along his skin.

“P-Peter... don't! You can't heal...” A pained groan sounded from Peter's back, and he held out a hand to shush his friend before he only fractured this already delicate situation further.

The Company man's glasses glinted dangerously red in the rusty light. “He's going to _kill_ people, Peter -”

“No he's not! He just -”

“He's a monster. All he knows how to do is kill. Or have you forgotten about your own brother...?”

The words ricocheted briefly before being swallowed up in the depths of the cavern. Behind him, Peter could hear more little grunts of pain and difficult, shuffling movements. He felt his hackles rise in defence of his lost brother and his wounded friend and took the tiniest of steps towards the older man, putting himself further in the path of the bullet that was meant for another. “Noah, listen to me, you don't _understand_ -”

Then a mutilated hiss shot through the steam, a fourth voice. “No _you_ don't understand, Peter!” The sound stabbed right through the empath's gut, and he glanced again at the almost unrecognisable form of his niece. His heart broke a little more when he saw the rage twisting her features, the disdain being thrown his way, and the gun in her hand pointing directly at his chest. “How could you ever _trust_ him?! After what he _did_ to me?!” One furious tear of betrayal glistened in her eye before rolling down her cheek, only to evaporate almost instantly.

“He's changed, Claire.” Peter insisted for the millionth time, although he knew she wouldn't believe him. Caught between staring down both the teenager and her adoptive father at once, Peter raised both harmless hands and tried to force as much emphasis into his next words as possible. “He's not the same person who did all those things, alright? I'm telling you – he only wants to _help_.”

“Really? And why would he ever want to do that? What's in it for him?” Noah retorted smoothly, adjusting his grip on the handle of his weapon, his aim never faltering.

“I'm different now – I've repented -”

“Sylar -” Peter stopped him again, his mortal heart stuttering and very vulnerable body tingling with nerves as Noah's finger stroked the trigger in promise.

“In all of a few months? That's more than a little hard to believe, Peter...”

“Well it's the truth.” Peter said slowly, clearly, with everything he had. “Okay, I swear. You have to trust me –”

“I _did_ trust you!” Claire spat suddenly, slicing Peter apart with her glare. The weapon in her clutches shook uncontrollably. “But you choose _him_?! I thought you were my friend! My _family_!”

Peter rounded on his niece, unable to bite back his frustration this time. “I am!” A loud metallic squeal pierced the air as yet another pipe burst nearby. Peter winced, but kept his gaze firmly on the ex-cheerleader. “But _he's_ my friend too! Why do I even have to choose – we're on the same side here!”

The place was so unbearably hot, so loud, tumbling down around them like a house of cards and it was all beginning to choke Peter with mottled, claustrophobic fingers. In the midst of it all, he didn't mean to let his guard down. He didn't mean to lose sight of his other assailant, even for just one second.

Without warning this time, Mr Bennet dodged around the smaller man and set off a series of ear-splitting, echoing shots.

“ _Noah!_ ” All at once Peter leapt at him, Claire flinched and Sylar yelled, and then suddenly the air was knocked out of the empath's body. He felt himself crash to the ground, scattering broken pipes and scraps of machinery everywhere as a searing gash of pain erupted through his torso.

He cried out, a reverberating yell, and clutched at his side, looking up wildly when he heard Sylar's gasp accompany three more gunshots. Peter watched in horrified silence, unable to make a coherent sound as the man he had just failed to protect toppled backwards over the railing and dropped ten metres to the level below. Metal rang out thickly as a body hit the grate.

“ _Dad_?! You – you just..! And _Peter_!”

“I did what I had to, Claire Bear: both of these men are extremely dangerous and this place is about to blow! We don't have much time...”

Peter heard the heated exchange between father and daughter, then the loud ringing of two pairs of feet – one determined, one being ushered along behind – as they hurried down the stairs to reach his fallen comrade. Then he was left crumpled on the ground. Wounded. Hurting. Alone.

White-hot pain continued to rip at him with every ragged breath, his vision was beginning to blur around the edges and he knew he was vulnerable and open and unable to protect himself in this state. But he also knew that he wasn't the endangered target. He clutched at the mesh grate below him with sticky hands, gasping for air that burned down his throat and heaved himself over to the edge of the walkway with all the waning strength he possessed. The footsteps faded as Peter grew further behind and ever closer to losing this fight. Grunting and groaning at the venomous pain that seared his every movement, he grit his teeth and slid through the gap at the bottom of the railing, free-falling the distance below.

Hot clouds of gas and steam whirled past as he fell, the ground came racing up to meet him, and Peter only just managed to catch himself at the last second with his current ability of flight. He clumsily eased his landing as he reached the ground beside Sylar, scrambling to check the status of his friend. Blood flowed out of multiple holes on the other man's chest, his eyes were closed and he was sprawled out loosely. Unconscious but still breathing. Barely.

The footsteps were approaching again, louder than ever, and two rippling shadows bled through the fog, weapons drawn. “Peter! Don't do it! I'm warning you – I _will_ kill you!”

Desperate, suffocating and fighting for much more than just his own life, Peter pressed a hand to Sylar's leaking chest, pulled out the first ability that rushed up to meet him and used it without thinking.

Fire.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little teaser chapter for a new multi-chapter Heroes fic I'm working on! I really hope you enjoyed it and that your interest has been sufficiently piqued ^.^
> 
> Chapter 1 should be up before too long, but I couldn't resist sharing this little preview with you all now X) Please let me know what you think, as ever, and I hope you'll all return to read more when I actually get the fic rolling!
> 
> The story will be my personal continuation of the series, post S4 Ep18 “Brave New World”, and will eventually pave the way into the events of Heroes Reborn. You don't need to have watched Heroes Reborn to read this – if you have done you will recognise some little Easter Eggs strewn throughout the fic, but if not I promise you won't get lost along the way ^.^


	2. Brave New World

It was quiet back here amongst deserted stalls. With the constant neon swish of lights spinning around and around and around on their displays. Two figures slowly made their way through Central Park, taking their time, getting their breath back now that the danger was over for tonight. The air chilled the pair's faces as they ambled along, side by side, both overwhelmed with the pure vastness of freedom, as the future that had haunted them for so long had finally come to pass. Now that the security of a known “destiny” had eventually been lifted from their shoulders, the road from here on out was uncharted.

And that was both equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

Peter Petrelli took the time, now that he had some, to look at his surroundings. It had been so long since he'd had _the_ dream, but in the relative five years since that night it had followed him still, a constant, looming presence of his and Sylar's uncompleted quest. So now, in the very place where it had all finally taken place, the truth of tonight's events was so much more than just hazy, dream-like visions: Sylar had saved Emma, the world was no longer in danger from a crazed terrakinetic, and Peter could finally let himself relax. At least, he _should_ be able to relax.

A brief, ear-piercing bleep of a siren made both men wince, still unused to loud noises. A police car trundled past them on the way to the street and Peter watched the dark shadow of Samuel Sullivan's head through the back window. The man didn't see him, but Peter's gaze lingered on the vehicle until it disappeared from sight. Strange... he'd almost forgotten what cars looked like.

The smoky tang of fate still lingered in the air tonight, and even though the bad guy was now in custody and all the civilians were being safely taken care of, he couldn't help but feel that things weren't quite over yet.

“...the lights, the cello and everything – everything was _exactly_ as you said it would be, Peter... and I knew right then that I didn't have to worry, because _I_ would be the same too. I knew I was going to do the right thing...”

Sylar was reminiscing as he walked alongside Peter, chattering about his rescue and enthusiastically recounting every detail in how he'd stopped Doyle and rescued Emma. Peter flashed a small smile his way that Sylar gladly accepted, but really he couldn't focus his attention enough to properly listen. The full aftermath of Samuel's “show” was unfolding before them as they continued on their way: broken and discarded props from the carnival littered everywhere; flagpoles strewn across the grass; trails of bunting left abandoned to flutter helplessly in the wind; half eaten boxes of popcorn; people's scarves and hats cast haphazardly around. Everything was left where it had been dropped in the mass panic that had ensued here just recently. Peter ignored the shiver that ran down his spine.

It had been _way_ too close.

Trying to shake off the clammy fingers of fear, he thought back to Emma, currently on her way home. She was safe. Because of Sylar. He'd really come through in the end, he'd really been a hero and saved the day. But if the day was already saved, _why_ did Peter still feel so uneasy...? He swallowed, a subtle attempt to soothe his frayed nerves without alerting Sylar to the stubborn coil of panic that refused to diffuse within him. The former killer seemed none the wiser as he continued blabbering, oblivious, still riding high on the buzz of saving someone – and, in effect, the entire world. Peter knew the platinum joy of that unique feeling and didn't want to ruin it for his friend, so he just composed his features and nodded along, intending to keep his troubling thoughts a secret.

He was over-reacting anyway, right? The danger was over, the crisis averted, the embers of the night dying down to a peaceful slumber. This was the moment where Peter _should_ have been celebrating with his friend! Congratulating him on doing so well, thanking him for his help and jointly basking in the afterglow of the successful endeavour (one that was five years in the making). Maybe it was the daunting freedom of stepping off the deliberate path that had directed his every action for what felt like forever, or maybe it was that suddenly the world just felt so... huge, _alive_ , and Peter was very aware that he was just a tiny, insignificant ant in the swarm that covered the entire planet... but whatever the reason, he just couldn't relax. The hairs on the back of his neck wouldn't stop prickling.

He took a subconscious step closer to his companion, so that their arms brushed in the sway of walking, and felt relief tickle at the warmth and presence of Sylar's body. At the familiar.

The base of the Ferris wheel came into sight, along with a gaggle of reporters and cameras, all scrambling for an explanation to the night's events. Peter slowed, just a little, content to keep a distance between himself and dozens of loud, bustling people (journalists or not) now that the night's mission was over. There hadn't been time to dwell on the thousands of civilians around him while Samuel had needed to be stopped, but now... well, one step at a time. He wasn't needed anyway: in the distance the tall, squared figure of Noah Bennet stirred a fleeting moment of calm within the empath. Peter had assumed Noah left already, but clearly things were still in the process of being tied up.

He let out a breath that proceeded a great deal of his anxiety. So, it turned out, there really _was_ no need to worry! Anyone who was familiar with that man knew that all things ability-related were bound to be smoothly covered up by clever words and years worth of impeccable training. No doubt by tomorrow news of a “gas leak” would be plastered over the headlines, Noah would work his magic to tidy away any incriminating evidence, and the world would continue as normal...

But then Peter noticed the small figure scaling the Ferris wheel. And his niggling worry slithered over and consumed him anew.

“...It's amazing, Peter.” Sylar concluded at last, his gaze burning eagerly as if for approval.

“What is?” Peter snapped harshly, too busy trying to untangle the threads of the inevitable, impending future that was possibly running out ahead of him to give Sylar his full attention. _Surely_ she wasn't going to...?! The swish of a blonde ponytail up high in the sky was unmistakeable... as was the reporters' excitement... as was Claire Bennet's intention.

“When I saved her.” Sylar continued, oblivious. “I didn't have a thought for myself – I could have killed Doyle but I didn't! It felt...good. It felt _right_ -”

“What the hell does she think she's doing?!” Peter blurted across Sylar, feeling his insides disintegrate as the foreseeable event finally made sense in his tired mind. No way... not after everything that had been done to stop this exact thing from happening...? Claire wouldn't be so dense, surely, to commit the very same act that had got her biological father shot?! Not after Peter had fought so hard...? “She's gonna change everything!”

Claire – her ability – the cameras! Peter felt the seconds slipping past like sand in an hourglass, too fine and fast for him to catch. There was no escaping what was about to happen. Breath catching in his chest, Peter had only taken half a step before it was all too late and the world as it had been was ripped apart at the seams by one teenage girl.

It all happened so quickly. It was all Peter could do to watch helplessly, heart hammering, as the future he had repeatedly tried to prevent unfolded right before his eyes. His niece stepped off the Ferris wheel before he could even think of a way to stop her, plummeted the full, deadly height of the structure to accompanying gasps of shock and horror that echoed through the crowd, and broke loudly upon impact.

The sickening _thump_ of a body hitting the ground rang out like a judge's gavel sealing fate's decision. Peter flinched and stumbled back into Sylar's steadying arms at the noise, his hands coming up in front of him.

At first, nothing happened. Silence – thick, heavy, impenetrable – seeped over the park. It was as if the world had frozen while the Earth's crust cracked and split beneath Peter's feet. He could see it all so clearly, there was nothing he could do to prevent it, and this time he couldn't even teleport back to his own, safe, timeline for a second chance! He just gaped, unable to quite believe what his eyes had just witnessed, unable to believe that Claire could really have just done something so momentous, so _selfish_! A hot stickiness dripped down over his head and body as he stood, unblinking, as if to see the world literally transforming before his eyes into the hell from a future he'd once avoided. Or so he'd thought, anyway.

It was Sylar's hands tightening on his arms that jolted Peter back to reality. “We have to stop her!” He grunted furiously, wriggling free from his friend's hold in order to do something – anything – to stop what he knew was hurling straight for them like a tornado. He caught himself on dizzy legs and sprinted right at the reporters to... to... he didn't even know what! To fling himself over Claire before it happened? Before anyone _saw_? Before everything was ruined forever...?

But he was too far away. Another ripple of gasps rang out from the herd of witnesses and Peter's joints locked and froze him in place, helpless and heartbroken as he watched the fallen girl stir from across the other side of the park. He only caught a glimpse of his niece staring directly into a camera, dramatically popping her shoulder back into place, before he lost sight of her behind the violent swarm of greedy journalists. Before the world was changed forever.

Instantly, everything erupted into too much noise, too much change, too many people and too many colours as the carnival continued to twinkle and chime around the centre of the beginning of it all. Central Park broke out into a frenzy of stampeding feet – the congregated reporters descended at once to get the first big scoop, whereas most of the lingering victims fled before they were dragged into this new life without their knowledge, opinion or consent. The previously almost serene place was suddenly buzzing and hostile, too compressed, too claustrophobic, especially for the recovering men who were still daunted by a world that held more people than two.

“Peter -”

Sylar was once again at his side. “We have to do something – we can't just let this happen!” Peter looked around wildly through the scared and scampering bodies for his next, desperate plan of action.

“No, we have to leave.” Sylar said softly, as if stating the obvious. Peter turned back to him with an accusing frown, shocked and offended by the man's calm demeanour. “This whole thing is about to be blown wide open and we can't be here when it happens.” The pair were jostled by an escaping, forgotten carnival member, and Peter resisted the urge to grab onto Sylar and shake him to his senses.

“What're you _talking_ about?! Didn't you see what just happened? If we leave now then it might be too late to fix it!”

“And how do you intend to “fix it”?” Sylar asked, throwing an arm out at the hysteria unravelling around them. This time there was a panicked edge to his tone that betrayed his earlier, composed exterior.

“Wh... I dunno. I dunno! ...H-Hiro!” Peter gasped, spinning on the spot and squinting his eyes for the Japanese teleporter who had been around here somewhere...

Of course! Hiro! Hiro would fix it, right? Or at least his power to time-travel would, so if the man himself wasn't willing to undo this travesty, then Peter could do it himself with his ability. All he'd need to do was stop Claire before she even went near that wheel! It was difficult to concentrate in the midst of the loud and busy mania, but Peter's heart skipped a beat as he caught sight of a small, dark haired man at the other side of the stage, his glasses reflecting dancing rainbow lights like Morse code.

“C'mon -” Peter reached behind for Sylar, ready to physically drag him across the grass if he had to, but then Hiro Nakamura screwed up his face and, in an instant, was gone. Shit! Thinking fast, Peter scanned the crowd for anyone, anything else that could help. But, without Hiro...

“We can't do anything here, Peter!” Sylar insisted, towering above Peter who felt like he was shrinking by the second. “If they find one of us – never mind _both_ of us – do you _really_ think that's going to make things better...?”

Peter swallowed roughly past his constricted throat, letting the truth in those words sink in, even though the thought of just running away when people might need him was perhaps even more sickening than staying behind to get caught. As one last, desperate attempt to find the easy answer, Peter cast wide eyes over the steadily emptying carnival once again.

By the looks of things, almost everyone outside the press party seemed to have scampered away. Everyone but –

“...Peter?” Noah Bennet's voice was distant but audible across the grass, as was the questioning threat in his tone.

Vice-like fingers clamped around Peter's wrist from behind, and only then did he remember that no one else here besides himself, Eric Doyle and Emma knew Sylar was working with the right side. Until now, Noah wouldn't even have been aware that Sylar was even here – let alone with Peter. He turned back to face the wanted killer, likely identifiable from miles away: tall, slim and dressed all in (still slightly dusty) black, eyes currently locked onto Peter's, large and wary, with that unmistakable face on clear display for all to see. He was a walking target, always had been, a magnet for trouble on the best of days... and already Peter resented the dangerous look growing on Noah's face.

At once, defensiveness for his friend overrode every other emotion bubbling away inside him. Peter put himself deliberately in front of Sylar and watched, trapped, as the seasoned agent strode over with a hand reaching conspicuously under his jacket and the reporters flocked over from a distance, targeting the last few stragglers with a revealing, neon hunger glinting in the unflattering eyes of their cameras. The world was closing in around the duo, and the park even more so, there was no escape and no easy do-over, disaster was descending from all directions and Sylar was right... there was nothing they could do here like this.

With one last look beyond the stampeding herd to an identifiable, blonde head, Peter's stomach knotted painfully and he allowed Sylar's strong grip to drag him away into the winding back paths of the carnival before any pursuer could catch them.

*

Noah followed the two men until he was out of sight of the cameras. The truth of it was: he was getting too old and too unfit to keep up with thirty-somethings with great stamina and immortality on their side. His aim, however, was a skill that was exercised to perfection.

With one hand twitching on his concealed weapon, he watched as the two figures ran side-by-side in perfect stride, allowing the absurdness of the sight to fully roll through his mind. Peter Petrelli: probably the world's most loyal brother, suddenly best buddies with _Sylar:_ Nathan's murderer, of all people...? Something didn't add up, but there were more important matters at hand tonight than the disconcerting allegiance between the two prospective most powerful people on the planet. It was just reflexes, really, that armed Noah's guard whenever Sylar came into sight. He knew even a perfectly-aimed bullet wouldn't kill the son of a bitch, but it would sure do wonders for relieving Noah's stress for one thing.

Taking recent history into account, that creature wouldn't even have sniffed at this place unless he wanted something for himself. And Noah doubted he'd turned up to a super-powered carnival for a fun night of popcorn and palm reading... He itched to aim at the taller figure's back as the unlikely duo disappeared into the empty depths of the carnival, but knew it would be pointless to take a useless shot. Releasing his gun to the sounds of reporters approaching behind him, his intelligent brain mulled over the unnerving appearance of the serial-killer here tonight, and what his inclusion with the carnival might really mean.

Noah pushed his way past the many cameras and microphones that were thrust into his face, refusing to comment and craning over the heads of the crowd to lock eyes with the defiant girl who he'd sacrificed everything for a hundred times over, only for her to have broken his heart here tonight.

*

Peter and Sylar wound through the twisting maze of abandoned trailers and stalls until only their pounding footsteps, heavy breathing and racing heartbeats rent the night. The ruckus surrounding Claire dulled in volume with enough distance between them and the Ferris wheel, however the rotating lights still loomed high above against the night sky. Only when certain they were safely out of range, Sylar jogged to a stop and offered his hand to the upset, panting Petrelli.

His meaning was understood without even a single word being uttered between them, and Sylar basked in the wonderful, long-missed and still fresh sensation of an ability at work as Peter drew flight from his fingertips. They waited in silence as Peter caught his breath (Sylar's stitch having been erased by regeneration – oh how he had missed it!), while both men allowed the full ramifications of Claire Bennet's moronic actions to hit them.

While Sylar had to agree with his companion's unease over the entire subject (even if maybe not to the same extent), he wouldn't admit so aloud only to advance Peter's fears. One of the many results of being trapped in an otherwise empty dream world: getting to know the sole other inhabitant was inevitable. Sylar recalled the times Peter had recounted his ventures in the future, and he knew precisely how sensitive the little man was about that particular topic and timeline, and how badly the memories and possibilities scared him to this day. He could only imagine the pain and horror twisting Peter up inside right now: having a fear come true, the literal foresight to expect the worst of it, and enduring the guilt and agony of believing to have failed the world in his duty. Clearly Peter currently needed an anchor to keep him strong, and so tonight Sylar would be that which Peter had repeatedly been for him in the past.

Here in the dark and quiet, with only each other for company, Sylar almost forgot for a second where they were. Which world they were in. It probably should have worried him that he preferred hiding out here in the back with the dumpsters and broken props to mixing with other people out by the stage, but he didn't dwell on it. He was too intent on Peter who, only now, Sylar realised, seemed to be taking too long to settle from the run over.

He was still bent over, hands on his knees and struggling for shaking breaths. “It's going to be okay, Peter.” Sylar assured him, and rubbed a hand gently, encouragingly, on his back. For a brief second the thought flashed by him... maybe affectionate touches such as this weren't appropriate anymore? But then it faded as quickly as it had arisen. Peter was his friend, right now he needed to be comforted, and Sylar saw no reason why they should behave any differently than in their last years together as soon as other people inhabited their world. Or, well, _they_ inhabited other people's world.

Chest still heaving, Peter peeked up through his hair and surveyed Sylar with wide, fearful eyes and his broken, distressed lip. “How... d-d'you know that?” He gasped. Sylar worried that the guy was either having or about to succumb to a panic attack, however he hid his nerves and smiled reassuringly at his only friend, still drawing soothing circles with his fingers on the rough fabric of Peter's jacket.

“We're superheroes.” He stated simply, revelling in the inclusive truth of 'we'. “We'll think of something.”

For a moment he was sure Peter was about to laugh, but no such sound broke the tension. Instead he straightened up and shook some feeling back into his legs, all cool and composed and ready for business. At least, that was the impression he tried to give off, but Sylar saw right through it. “We need to lay low for the night – it's only gonna get worse.” Peter turned back to stare up at the distant Ferris wheel with worry still etched firmly into his fine features. The guy still appeared to be resisting the temptation to either scream or cry, and all Sylar knew right then was that he was determined to prevent either outcome.

“You can stay at my apartment, we can watch it from there.” He suggested. Then, despite himself and the the morbid events of the night, found a genuine smile form on his face. “I seem to recall that you don't have a TV.”

*

The thought hadn't even occurred to Peter that he might have to go home alone tonight. He'd almost forgotten that he didn't live across the hall from Sylar here, but miles away across the city. The thought alone of venturing out into the crazy nightlife of New York just after abilities had been revealed to the world (not to mention on his first night back here!) was a little too much to handle.

So he nodded and readied himself to get moving, immensely grateful for Sylar's offer but unable to quite express that in words.

*

The reformed murderer waited patiently until the paramedic fretted himself into the decision to leave for sure, nodded again, and squared himself for take-off. “Alright. Let's go.” He almost whispered this time, his voice gravelly and lips tight.

Just before they lifted up into the night sky, Sylar felt the quiet, light pressure of fingertips against his shoulder. He didn't acknowledge them, but he knew perfectly well what they meant: gratitude, affection and comfort – both given and received. A hidden smile curved his lips and he basked in the knowledge that despite the brave new world stretching out ahead... he was to face it with Peter Petrelli by his side.

Together they rose high above the carnival, the majestic display of lights twinkling innocently like stars strewn out beneath them while expertly disguising the cataclysmic event that was unfurling in its midst.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I recently (as in, after planning this fic) read the official e-book continuation of Heroes set before the events of Heroes Reborn, and while it made for an interesting read, I'm not going to follow it's confines for this story. (Peter and Sylar deserved so much more than they got in the e-book in my opinion ^.^) So while this fic intends to fill in the gaps between Heroes season 4 and Heroes Reborn, if you've read the book consider it an alternate universe running parallel with “Save the Cheerleader, Destroy the World”.
> 
> If you haven't read that book, then you can safely ignore this author's note X)


	3. Under My Skin

They got lost on the way home. It had been almost a decade in Sylar's mind since he'd travelled these streets, and it took him a while to get his bearings. Having been so accustomed to the deserted, cross-hatching streets of his Los Angeles/New York hybrid prison, the streets he'd grown up on now felt more dreamlike than the real dream ever had.

The entire flight, Peter strayed no further than an arm's length away – a quiet, sturdy anchor to reality (as he had been for a while now) that Sylar was incredibly thankful for. Peter never complained when they had to change course more than once, he didn't object to landing on a random rooftop while Sylar scoped out the perimeter, and the whole time he never uttered one word of the anxiety that was visibly tearing him up inside.

It might have been rather selfish of Sylar to think it, but he resented Claire for what she'd done back in the park. Not for ruining the world, oh no, but for ruining his and Peter's first night of freedom. Of course they'd talked about it, repeatedly: what they'd do once they broke free of that suffocating wall. Mostly the talks had been hypothetical, and the fantasies had never strayed far from the normality of being able to finally watch a movie that they didn't know every line to, or to actually _drive_ somewhere _outside_ the confines of the city for a change of scenery. Sylar didn't even know if Peter still wanted or intended to do that at all, but the fact was that now they didn't even have the option. They'd had about ten minutes of down time between saving the world and having it screw up again, and after eight years of waiting for this night... ten minutes reprieve simply wasn't long enough for Sylar.

Despite the burning questions and so many things that he wanted to say now that they were finally free from the confines of Parkman's mind prison, he let Peter brood in silence for the duration of their journey.

Eventually the streets below began to make sense, and soon the two men landed in the shadow of a familiar building, sharing a sense of ease at the sight. This place was familiar. This place was home in the midst of a strange city. They climbed the stairs shoulder-to-shoulder, the place foreign looking under the signs of other inhabitants living here beside themselves, and Sylar let out a breath he hadn't even noticed he'd been holding when his own front door came into view at long last.

“Home sweet home...” He let Peter inside first before following him in and closing the door securely on the outside world. The first thing he did was shed his dusty jacket and kick his shoes off now he was safely back in the comfort of the apartment. Then he turned to feast his eyes on the only place he knew as home.

It was the weirdest thing – to have stood here two hours ago, but to also feel the sense of neglect in the air. Sure, it had technically only been this morning that Sylar had gone to visit Parkman and asked for his help, but at the same time he hadn't set foot in this version of this apartment for years. The furniture and décor was the same, of course, but it was the little things that jarred. The book Sylar had been reading what felt like yesterday was neatly in its place on the shelf, not on the arm of the couch where he'd left it; Peter's spaghetti stain that Sylar had failed to scrub out of the carpet and subsequently despised for the past three years was now nowhere to be seen... and in an absurd way, he missed it; the unequal game of chess the pair had been struggling through for months now was no longer set up meticulously on the coffee table, which was also pointedly absent of the ring marks Sylar had grown to forgive. Now they'd never finish the match.

“Do you want something to drink?” Sylar asked, aware of how hungry and thirsty he, himself, was after not eating a thing all day. He flung his keys onto the coffee table with a flick of his fingers, and they shot across the room with the force of a bullet, bouncing off the table with a jingle and falling to the floor due to too much momentum. Sylar jumped a little, feeling his fingertips tingle slightly in the after burn of telekinesis. Of course... he wondered how long it would take for him to get used to having his abilities again after going so long without. “I don't think I have much to choose from, though.”

*

Peter had headed directly for the TV the second he crossed the threshold. Only because he was so familiar with the routine had he made a half assed attempt to throw his jacket in the general direction of the coat stand and kick his shoes away to spare any dirty footprints – as were the rules of the house. Still bubbling with dread, he crouched down and turned the TV on easily. He was perfectly comfortable with this place and its belongings, despite the fact that this was technically his first time inside Sylar's apartment.

“Uh, whatever you've got is fine...” He said absently, ignoring his grumbling stomach and instead frowning at the screen as he flicked through the channels desperately in search of the news. Funny, in all his life he'd never imagined he could actually forget what Bart Simpson looked like until now...

*

“Pity we couldn't take that Macallan back with us, huh? We could've made a toast or something...” Sylar mused aloud as he entered his kitchen, and was startled when the contents of his cupboards were different to how he'd left them. He'd forgotten that on a particularly dull day in their third year in the mind prison, he and Peter had taken it upon themselves to rearrange the kitchen. He puzzled for a moment before remembering where things used to be, and went about finding some sort of glasses. Deciding then and there that he would later move around the room to the way he now liked it (and get himself some proper drinking glasses while he was at it!) Sylar recovered his best mismatched mugs from the minimal available batch. Even more embarrassing was his pathetically empty fridge and lack of beverages, and he resorted to filling the mugs with water from the tap while longing after the expensive whiskey they'd always said they'd “get round to...” but now they never would. In their dream world, food had never been in short supply or difficult to obtain, and Sylar vaguely wondered if he even remembered how to go grocery shopping in a real, busy store where he actually had to pay for things...

When he returned to his companion, Peter was sitting hunched on the edge of the couch, leaning forward and gazing at the TV screen intently. Sylar passed him on the way to the empty seat at his side, holding out the better mug for him to take. “Here. It's just water, that's all there is. “To freedom!”, I guess...” He lofted his drink before taking a sip.

Peter looked up to catch the offered mug, cradling it to his chest instead of drinking it. “Thanks.” He mumbled, scowling at the news again. Sylar sat down beside him, as usual ignoring the creaking springs under his weight, and joined in the examination of the headlines seeing as Peter was clearly not in a talkative mood.

The night quickly spiralled into a major exposé for people with abilities: Claire's miraculous live recovery from a fatal fall played repeatedly, with the news anchors puzzling over the insane circumstance and the existence of super-humans. More and more information unfolded as the night grew long: the truth about the carnival and it's inhabitants was quickly discovered (even though the intentions of Samuel Sullivan were never once mentioned), overwhelming evidence of another species of human blasted over the screen, and Mohinder and Chandra Suresh were both mentioned repeatedly, with constant references to their theories and research. Sylar couldn't help but tense at the brief, nameless mention of “Patient 0”, but it was soon swallowed up in the onslaught of information that continued to unfurl for hours. Footage of different people with different abilities appeared on the news: a levitating man, a girl who made a flower bloom in her hand, a baby that could blow a stream of floating bubbles from its lips... Some were dragged into the limelight or outed unwillingly by parents or glory-seeking friends, and some even headed down to the scene of the carnival – the night's impromptu hub for all things ability-related – to show the world their powers themselves.

And the more Peter and Sylar watched, the more the world seemed to rejoice at the news.

*

Overall the response was positive, with footage of specials exposing their powers to applause from their families and neighbours, and the stories kept cutting back to the first shot of Claire – standing beneath the Ferris wheel encouraging “all of these brave, special individuals to come forward, as I did”. Peter found his anger slipping away as he watched his niece, her face shining with pride and a tear glistening in her eye, greeting all of these people and congratulating them on being true to themselves. She really did seem to think she'd done the right thing, at least. Peter found that he couldn't hold that against her, no matter how unsure he was of the idea himself.

“Look at her.” He sighed. “She has no idea what she's done.” He spoke flatly, having sat in almost complete silence since he'd entered the apartment. Despite what he was seeing play out in front of him, he couldn't help but think of the way the world had once “accepted” abilities in a time long past, yet possibly still to come.

“Well... neither do we.” Peter squinted at Sylar in surprise then, straining his stiff neck with the sudden movement. That had sounded almost... hopeful? The taller man elaborated. “I know you're really against all of this, Peter. But why is that? Really?” Eyes burning into the paramedic, Sylar casually hunted down and took a sip from his drink, both mugs having lain almost forgotten since he'd brought them over almost three hours ago. The pair still hadn't eaten, but while Peter had heard his friend's stomach squealing repeatedly, he'd lost his own appetite long ago. “I know you're afraid of what you saw the last time. But maybe this will be different? Just look at all this: it seems like it might be a good thing.”

Peter sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his furrowed brow. He didn't understand how Sylar could be so naïve, but then again, he hadn't actually seen it with his own eyes the way Peter had. “You're right, I _am_ afraid.” He admitted simply, his bottom lip pouting slightly in defeat. “I'm afraid that people like you, like me, like _Claire_ will get rounded up and locked away, just because of who we are. All those people who are coming out like this...?” Peter gestured at the TV before shaking his head. “They have no idea what they could be getting themselves into. Alright – it _looks_ like it might be okay now. But what happens when the novelty wears off? What happens when there's an accident, or someone recruits an army of people with abilities, or someone has the bright idea to go around terrorising the world with their power, just 'cause they can...? Huh?” A meaningful look transpired between the pair then, and Sylar once more busied himself with his drink.

Saying it aloud like this only made it more scary, but this was a fear Peter could no longer keep locked inside in hopes of preventing it from happening. It was _already_ happening. Before, it had all been in his mind, his memories, the only place where traces of those unfulfilled timelines lingered, except in restrained conversations with this very man sitting beside him. But now the thought – no, _knowledge_ – that it was actually real ran chills down Peter's spine, and he felt only more nauseous now than he had while witnessing Claire's fateful skydive back in the park.

“There'll be no escape for them if this all goes to hell. If people begin to fear us – and you're right, they might not yet...” He added, voice threatening to waver as he looked Sylar in the eye. “But if they do – everyone who thinks this is the best day of their lives will be right on the firing line. _They're_ the ones who will suffer for this. _We're_ the ones who will have to run for our lives and be classed as “terrorists”. _Again._ That future I saw? What happened then? This could be the start of it. The start of _all of it_.” Peter gestured with his hand, drawing a wild circle to indicate 'all of it'.

Now that he'd opened the latch on this vault, he found himself unable to stop vocally expelling the dark mass of fear that had been boiling in his stomach all night. He needed to get his point across, he needed Sylar to understand! But, secretly, mostly he needed to offload this burden onto someone who would actually listen to him.

“People hunting us down, specials everywhere having to hide, having to lie, having to watch our backs – all because of _this_. What if someone _does_ try to rip the world apart, huh? ...What if it's Samuel? What if it's _not?!_ We have no clue how far this will go or even how many people out there have abilities in the first place!” He laughed humourlessly to himself, rubbing his thumb over his forehead again as he drew in a calming breath. Then he met Sylar's gaze once more, seeing the dread and understanding where there hadn't been any before. “Yeah I'm scared, Sylar. Because every time the world has ever known about abilities, it's _never. Worked. Out._ Not for us. Not for anyone. And... and I just don't wanna see it happen that way again.” Peter leaned back in his seat with a creak of springs, massaging his throbbing temple and staring numbly at the TV through aching, tired eyes.

*

“Well you certainly answered my question.” Sylar rumbled out a dry chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. He could tell it worked, that Peter was grateful for it, grateful not to be alone in this. A little puff of a laugh escaped the other man's lips in return. It would be nice if Sylar could say for certain that everything really _was_ going to be okay, but sadly Peter's fears had solid standing. And both men knew there was nothing they could do about it. “So I take it you're not gonna “come out” then, like Claire and all her little groupies?” Sylar smirked, spinning his mug around and around in his fingers.

Peter swivelled his head to meet his gaze from his slouched, forlorn position. “I wasn't planning on it.” He cracked the tiniest of half smiles, to reassure Sylar, he knew. As if _Sylar_ was the one most in need of reassurance, here. “I just don't know enough yet to make the decision. Maybe I'll wait it out, do it in my own time...” Sylar nodded quietly, slowly, taking that in. He suspected that there was a lot more going on beneath the surface there, but trusted Peter to share it when or if he chose. Sylar had always refused to beg for information, and his more... preferred method of procuring what he wanted wasn't going to cut it anymore. So instead he would just be patient. “What about you?” Peter prompted, drawing Sylar out of dark memories. “Are you gonna tell the truth?”

*

They looked at each other for a thoughtful moment before Sylar finally spoke. “No. Not yet.” He rolled his eyes in a condescending manner. “I'm just trying to get my life back on track, and somehow admitting that I'm an ex-serial killer with unquestionable power doesn't seem to be the right way to go about that.” He grinned then, a small, playful motion that Peter felt seep comfortingly into his chest and settle there. “Besides, I'd only steal everyone else's thunder...”

Peter felt his lips tug at the corner. “Oh yeah?”

“Are you kidding? One look at me and Lil' Miss Indestructible would be yesterday's news.”

“Oh you think so?”

“I _know_ so, Peter. They'd trample over her to get to me so fast she wouldn't even have time to regenerate. And _then_ I'd show them my abilities and they'd only want me more...”

Peter hauled himself out of his reclining slump with a laugh, his first real one in what felt like forever, and was truly glad to have Sylar's company. While the hours had whizzed past as he'd been glued to the TV screen, he'd been so absorbed in the impending apocalypse that he'd almost forgotten where he was watching it from. And now he felt at least a little tension lift under Sylar's smile. The smile of a friend.

“I guess you're right.” Peter looked back at the TV once again. At the reoccurring face of a familiar, blonde teenager. “It's probably best if we don't get involved. At least publicly.” So much had changed in only a few hours, everything was moving so fast and he wished it would all just stop already. It would have been overwhelming rejoining the living world on the most peaceful of days, but this was just too much to break into after knowing nothing but silence for so long. From one hell to the next, in the span of an hour or so. Peter's head was positively thumping, he was beyond physically and emotionally drained, and had heard enough from this reporter (and all the other ones too) to last him a lifetime. “Lets talk about something else. Anything else.” He sighed, blindly reaching behind him for his abandoned mug and resting it on his knee.

*

Sylar stretched for the remote control, jabbed the power button and plunged them into a peaceful, static silence. He reminded himself that he could have easily garnered the same effect with a flick of his wrist and a lash of telekinesis, but for some reason found the physical movement reassuring. They sat silently for a few seconds while the static buzz of the TV fizzled in the air around them.

“Emma seems like a nice woman.” He said simply. “I take back what I've been saying – I can easily believe all the great things you've been telling me about her non-stop for the past five years...” He discarded his mug on the table beside him before stretching out his legs, crossed at the ankle, and sinking back into the cushions in a more comfortable position. It had been a very, very, _very_ long day for them both, and he was ready to settle down for a well-earned rest.

“I did _not_ go on about her non-stop for five years!” Peter brandished his own mug at Sylar, jabbing accusingly with the finger that was looped through the handle. “And are you forgetting we barely even talked for half of it...?” He mumbled as he took a drink himself.

“Oh, so you're only counting the time you could actually stand the sight of me as real? How long was that then – a week?”

Peter shrugged nonchalantly and brought his mug back up to his lips before pausing. “Well, maybe two...”

Their time together in the mind prison had been a long and complicated process to say the least. However, Sylar was pleased to note that after many, _many_ crossed wires, fists and harsh words, after dozens of secret, stolen smiles and tearful breakdowns over the years, after they'd _finally_ managed to manoeuvre themselves into some sort of co-dependent routine where they'd eventually learned not to step on each other's toes anymore... the last year had passed in almost harmony. Or at least as harmoniously as life could possibly be when out of the only two men in the world: one used to be a super-powered mass murderer, and the other was a scorned Petrelli.

“Who'd have thought, huh? You, me, sitting here reminiscing about the good ol' days...?” Sylar chimed, nudging Peter's leg with his knee and causing the little man to rock and his drink to slosh up into his face. He coughed and spluttered while Sylar burst out laughing, reeling back from Peter's dangerous stare. It amused him now to see that look, the very same one that had used to be the guy's standard expression whenever he laid eyes on Sylar, not that he could blame the man. Whereas Sylar had used to find it strange to see Peter _not_ angry, now that scowl was out of place on his normally kind face. After years of resenting the man, of looking down on him and dismissing the 'golden-hearted hero' routine that Peter had stubbornly dragged with him to every single one of their encounters – now he finally got it. Now that he was privy to this other side of the man, was allowed to see his true colours, Sylar finally saw what had evaded him all that time. And now he could never un-see it.

He laughed himself out while Peter wiped at his face with his sleeve and every wall and surface echoed with consecutive _tick-tock-tick-tocks_. Now that Peter had mentioned it, the tough years of their relationship within the dream had been resurrected in Sylar's memory. Thank god that was in the past... he doubted he'd be strong enough to face this new life of his without Peter. Not that he'd ever told the guy that, of course. He assumed it was obvious without having to say all the gushy stuff aloud, and not for the first time internally praised Peter's ability (both human and supernatural) to be able to empathise with him so well, to truly _understand_ him in a way nobody else would ever bother to. Ever had done.

And yet...

He recovered his drink absent-mindedly, mind running over an earlier matter that he hadn't had time to voice until now.

*

“Peter?” Sylar's voice was quiet, low, yet rang out in time with all the surrounding ticking that Peter had accustomed to ignore. The paramedic set his now spilled and empty mug down on the table surface (genuinely not noticing the coaster that was set out for his convenience), and finished stemming the water from his nostrils.

“Yeah?”

“I've... been thinking.”

“About what?” Peter asked warily, half expecting an initiation of a play fight – a much better alternative to the real deal, they'd found out the hard way. But instead it was Sylar's next statement, not another kick, that caught him off guard.

“I saw the way you looked at me back there.”

*

Peter caught Sylar's gaze then, his face crinkling in question, and so Sylar continued more softly so as not to sound accusing. “In the tent. With Doyle.”

He recalled the lights, the music, the pathetic, weak pleas of his pathetic, weak captive, and the purest thrill that had coursed through him at finally doing the right thing for once. Then he recalled the expression on his only friend's face when he'd burst into the tent, ruffled and terrified of what scene he might be falling into.

Sylar avoided Peter's eyes and buried his face into the rim of his mug, his voice echoing dully off the surface of the water. “You were surprised that I hadn't killed him.” He took a sip.

Peter shifted, his body language tensing as he turned to face Sylar more squarely on the couch. He wondered for a second if Peter was going to deny it and throw aside their agreement of honesty within their very first night of freedom. But then the empath let out a soft breath that arose the hairs on Sylar's arms.

“Yeah. I was. I'm not gonna lie to you – a part of me was scared that when faced with a test like that... you'd go back to how you used to be.” Sylar nodded in acceptance of the information he already knew, taking another drink of stale water to salve the burn eating away at him inside. “But what I thought... what I was thinking when I looked at you... it wasn't just relief. I was proud of you.” Peter followed up those five words with a little crooked smile.

Sylar's heart leapt and he clumsily drooled a few drops of water down his chin in an attempt to return the motion. He hastily wiped at his face with his sleeve in an imitation of Peter just moments ago, his cheeks threatened to turn pink and he absolutely expected a 'serves you right!' to come his way.

But Peter didn't laugh at him. “I should have believed that you weren't going to hurt anybody. I'm sorry I didn't, I _wanted_ to... but I do now.”

Sylar painfully gulped down his mouthful and gazed at Peter openly, wishing he could put into words how lovely those words were to hear. How long had he searched for even a scrap of appreciation, of _recognition_ from literally anyone who would give it...? And nobody had. In all his years, he'd never have expected his salvation to stumble into his life in the form of this particular man. He hadn't forgotten his past with Peter: all the fights, all the death, all the hurt... it just felt so long ago now. Sometimes Sylar was hit anew by the impact of his and Peter's unlikely friendship, and in those moments he only treasured what they had even more. Right now was one of those moments.

*

“Th-thank you.” Sylar said quietly, licking his lips to catch stray droplets of water. What stung Peter was the genuine surprise in his friend's tone – probably as much surprise as Peter had felt upon discovering that the most fearsome person on earth had really managed to avoid temptation back in that tent, and had instead strung up his charge, alive and well, in flashing light bulbs like a gruesome contribution to the carnival display. “If only Parkman and Bennet could say the same...” Sylar thrummed bitterly.

“Hey – I _trust_ you.” Peter dipped his head to peek into Sylar's eyes intently, conveying the honesty in his words. “I don't need to read your mind to see what Matt couldn't – I saw your heart today. Thousands of people are alive right now because of you. Including Emma... So I guess I need to thank you. For doing what I asked of you all that time ago. That's all the proof I need that you've really changed.” He allowed a little smile to play with his lips again, the left side stretching asymmetrically as always to accommodate the movement. Of course Peter would never have led this man into a thriving crowd of thousands of innocent people if he _hadn't_ believed in his redemption, but he couldn't deny the weight being lifted from his chest after having it confirmed for real.

It didn't matter that nobody else would accept that Sylar was different now. Yeah, it hurt when Matt had cast them aside so roughly last night, so eager to deny the truth that he was still blind to it even after sifting through Sylar's open mind. And okay, it wasn't exactly encouraging that Noah Bennet had chased them with a gun the very second he'd laid eyes on Sylar. But in the end, it didn't matter what _they_ thought. They'd never understand. Nothing in this world but the two beating hearts in this room knew the real story, and Peter was adamant that he'd help Sylar in his plight for absolution. And if no one else was going to try, he'd damn well put his all in, for both of them.

*

Sylar listened to those glorious words with a hammering heart. He was well aware that the only reason that godforsaken wall had broken was because Peter trusted him. But that had been _then –_ like Peter said: before there was the lure of potential abilities waiting to corrupt Sylar. A tiny part of him had wondered... when they got free, what happened then..? He had believed the empath back in the prison, when his forgiveness had been the catalyst to set both their souls free at last. And he believed him now, when his words were the key to their united, unknown future. It was greatly reassuring to know Peter was still willing to stay with him now they'd completed their mission. Even when he had literally the rest of the population to hang out with instead if he chose.

Sylar downed the last dregs of his water, wishing it wasn't such a pitiful substance, and feeling touched and somewhat embarrassed under the words he'd been yearning to hear for so painfully long.

*

Sylar let out a bitter chortle as he set his empty mug down neatly on a coaster. “No one will believe me.” He stated simply, drawing his legs up until he sat cross-legged on the seat of the couch, facing Peter with a patronizing loft of one heavy eyebrow.

“ _Us._ ” Peter corrected. “No one will believe _us._ ”

This was the part where Sylar would usually have made a smart comment to emphasise how little the opinions of those people mattered to him, Peter knew. He also knew that the man's tender, fragile wound of morality was so precious, so new out here in the open light, and that he craved acceptance now only more than ever, after fighting so hard to prove himself worthy of it. Sylar watched Peter with his round, deep eyes, his brows steady but almost purposefully poised in the middle ground between fearsome and vulnerable. From the outside he was practically unreadable, a skill he had honed to perfection in his old life, but Peter could see right through the facade to the swirling insecurity raging inside.

“I know it's not gonna be easy. Especially with abilities out in the open...” Peter ran a hand agitatedly through his hair, his heart jolting at the reminder of what was exploding outside the perceived safety of this apartment. “But all you can do is prove them all _wrong_ by showing them that you _have_ changed. Eventually... they'll come around.” He assured, a hopeful smile touching his face.

*

Sylar contained his bubbling appreciation at Peter's loyalty and only let it show through another upwards twitch of his lips. This unique little specimen really _did_ care for him, and if Sylar didn't think it so childish he might even acknowledge the fuzzy tingles that fluttered through him. Instead, an old idea ballooned anew in his impressive mind, and at once his pulse began to quicken. It was a grand one. Revitalising, petrifying and _so_ much more important than some ex-cheerleader playing figurehead in the park...

Sylar spared a second to consider how to best broach the subject – it hadn't gone down so well last time, and the memory made him cringe even now. But this situation was decidedly different. And so much had already changed since then.

“Well – in the meantime...” He slapped both hands to his thighs, hastily changing the subject from one so bruised as adrenaline began to deliciously leak into his bloodstream. “I was thinking... seeing as we're back in the real world and all...” He twitched his grand eyebrows, trying to come across as playful instead of equal parts thrilled and terrified. “We could... y'know? Do that _thing_ we talked about...?”

Peter, having been listening with the sombre concentration deserving of their previous topic, now rocked back with a startled laugh. Sylar enjoyed watching the little man redden slightly and toy with his overgrown hair as he thought over the brazen invitation. Eventually, he met Sylar's shameless gaze with a shy look. “I wasn't sure you'd still want to.” He said quietly, visibly beginning to shine with the first tendrils of nerves entwining with excitement, and Sylar's blood only heated more.

“I do. If you do.” His pulse was now hammering through his veins, and he kept his face unreadable while he waited for Peter to come to a decision. They'd agreed, he told himself. They'd talked about it more than once, and now that they were actually _here_ , with _real_ bodies, there was nothing holding them back anymore... just the thought alone made Sylar giddy, but he managed to keep his cool while praying that Peter wasn't going to hold out on him now. Not now. Not when they were finally here.

*

Thoughtfully, Peter let his gaze trail over the remorseful murderer while he really mulled things over. He noticed some lingering dust and rubble that the wind hadn't blown away currently powdered through Sylar's black hair and eyebrows. More dust clung to his shirt, _the_ shirt, the same one the man had worn every day for years. Peter briefly wondered if Sylar would look strange to him wearing something else for once. He, himself, probably would too. The hands that had ended a hundred lives were sat gently in his lap, conical fingers twitching slightly, somehow always slightly pink as if cold. The guy's long legs were bundled between them on the couch, his knee just an inch away from brushing Peter's thigh.

The primary thought that sprung to mind here was how _comfortable_ Peter was in this space. How natural it felt to squeeze into a small couch beside the person who had used to be his nemesis. It was crazy, it sounded unbelievable, but really it was quite simple: it was because he _knew_ this man. And he trusted him. It shouldn't be scary, it shouldn't feel wrong to commit this most intimate of acts that they _both_ had agreed to once upon a time. And the best part was...? It didn't.

*

“...Yeah.” Peter said, nodding once with a tiny dip of his head. “Yeah, I do.” He smiled a little as he signed himself over, and it lingered in the room when Sylar's face broke out into a matching grin.

Heart racing, Sylar waited patiently as Peter shifted until he mirrored his pose and their knees rubbed together in the too small space. The seconds stretched on audibly as the pair took a moment to ready themselves, drawing in calming breaths and trying not to give too much away in their faces. Sylar watched his friend hesitantly, waiting for any sign to continue. Pins and needles had started consuming his limbs, but it was from anticipation rather than sitting uncomfortably, and Sylar rode high off the certainty of what he was about to do. Oh yes, it had been worth the wait. He revelled in the undeniable truth that he had no regrets about this, and that Peter was equally invested. Equally as willing.

Handing over every single inch of himself to someone had been a very daunting idea to begin with – one he'd never have considered before being trapped in the dream – but over the years spent trapped with Peter, he'd grown to feel that this outcome was only a natural conclusion to their prolonged sentence. Which of course didn't make it any less exhilarating.

It was the paramedic that moved first. Taking the leap for both of them, he licked his lips and leaned in, spiralling Sylar's heartbeat as a warm, gentle palm came to rest on the centre of his thumping chest.

Sylar looked between Peter's face and his hand: the large, hazel orbs that blinked just inches from his own, and the long, gentle fingers that lay over his racing heart. “Are you sure? There's no coming back after this.” Peter whispered, all tenderness and empathy now with no trace of his earlier nervousness. Sylar let out a tight breath that seemed to drain his very being, feeling his soul beat a frantic, clockwork rhythm beneath his skin. He looked into Peter's eyes and smiled a confident, almost predatory grin that was crafted to mask any sign of weakness.

“Yes.” He purred, and although the effort of the single word was almost too much in this moment, he was certain that this was what he wanted.

“Just... before we do this: I meant what I said earlier... I _do_ trust you. Without this. You know that, right?”

Sylar's grin stretched a millimetre further. “I guess we'll soon find that out, Peter...” He watched, unmoving, absorbing every detail as the empath hesitantly closed his eyes, licked his lips once more and blew out a breath that cast goosebumps across Sylar's throat. The little man waited, working his way into it, and his face eased into a perfect expression of serenity.

And then the tingling trail of warmth and light danced through Sylar's chest and into Peter's body.

After a few seconds the still unfamiliar sensation ended and Peter shuffled again. “Okay, c'mere...” He mumbled, bowing his head and encasing Sylar's hand warmly between both of his own, and Sylar felt his last chance to back out pass him by. He gladly watched it go.

*

Peter focused his attention, squeezed Sylar's fingers gently before sending one last reassuring glance at his target. The ex-killer nodded, they both closed their eyes this time... and Peter slipped into the velveteen spiral of the unfamiliar ability.

Having never come into contact with the “tattooed temptress” herself, as Sylar had called her, all Peter had to go on was the explanation his companion had given, and the enticing pull of the ability's natural allure. It took him a moment to get a hold on it, but only because it was so smooth to touch. At first Peter wasn't even aware the ability was even working, but then he noticed that it wasn't just his own heart he could feel flowing blood through his veins, but Sylar's too... he could hear the clocks ticking around him from two points of view, could feel both arms of the couch at his back... and then came the unexplainable wave of emotion that shattered him into pieces. It swept him up, carried him along, refused to let him break for air as it pulled him under in the softest, most tender attack of the senses he had ever experienced in his life.

*

Sylar had never endured the likes of this before. The one and only time he'd been on the receiving end of this ability he'd been too preoccupied by the anticipation of sex to really notice what Lydia had been doing to him mentally as well as physically. But now, humbly sitting with this other human being and his hand simply in another's, Sylar was drenched in excitement, in sensation and the wholehearted presence that was Peter Petrelli thriving inside him. Sylar could _feel_ the sweetest nectar of Peter's life force coiling through his very soul, twisting and winding and coiling around even the hidden, secret crevices to his being. At first it was terrifying. But he trusted more than he feared.

Despite being a fairly invasive procedure, he felt that perhaps because he had succumbed to this willingly it wasn't uncomfortable, as Claire had seemed to think when he'd used it on her. In fact, it was revitalising! Freeing! Like when he was flying at the speed of sound and all of his worries were blasted away and had to struggle to drag him down again. Sylar felt his spirit be cleansed: like he was confessing a horrid secret that had eroded him for years only to be told it wasn't as awful as he'd always thought, like he was taking his first ever breath of fresh air, like he was falling and flying at the same time... yet through every second he was aware of the firmness of the couch beneath him, and of course the soft pressure of Peter's smooth skin against his own.

This really _had_ been worth the wait, worth the excruciating build up until they once again were in possession of abilities and able to commit this deed fully. Sylar remembered the first time the idea had hit him, how unfathomable it had been and how he'd refused to even consider it for another few months, until it wasn't quite as scary to chance a peek at now and again... He thought over everything he'd been through with Peter, both good and bad, the relationship that had evolved itself between them even without their input, and how far they'd come since that first encounter back in Odessa... He lingered on the genuine shock, the humbling surprise he'd felt the first time he'd noticed that Peter was no longer just an unwitting fellow prisoner in Parkman's prison, but something so much more that couldn't be labelled, couldn't be pinned down as anything other than unbelievable... He reminded himself of Peter's loyalty, of his true affection, and how natural it felt now to open himself up for the gentle, careful microscope of the other man's gaze. He was safe here.

As his thoughts strayed further to the other man, flowed deeper into the vein of his existence, the former villain was suddenly overcome with the purest sensation of relief. He felt _whole_ , he felt _double_ , like twice the person he should be! Then he realised that he'd somehow switched perspective in his own mind, as if watching himself from third person or in a dream. It was disorientating, it was confusing, it was overwhelming all at once and at first he couldn't get a grip on it at all... but after his lagging mind caught up with him, Sylar eventually recognised that he was currently focusing Lydia's power on Peter in return.

Which, he suddenly recalled, was _not_ what they'd agreed on.

Sylar jolted in an attempt to wrench his consciousness free from Peter's - but, like a guiding hand, something led him back into the cosy, comforting embrace, letting him know everything was alright and that he was more than welcome here. With a surge of emotion that rolled over them both at once, Sylar realised that this was Peter aware of what was happening, and so armed with his permission, he relaxed and let himself fall freely into the moment. This only intensified the experience, dialled everything up to eleven until it was almost an unbearable pleasure, and even if Sylar had wanted to pull back again he couldn't: for there it was... the golden pathway into Peter's very core. That pure, unbreakable thread that guided him, that led him back through his own centre and then again back to Peter's in a repeated, undiluted cycle between the pair.

Together they rode the wave that radiated through them both, connecting them on a deeper level than Sylar had ever imagined was possible. He saw the full extent of the little man's fears and the mountain of guilt that he had collected over a lifetime of his best efforts not being good enough. That hero complex was impossible to miss, a colour so defiant it stained every fibre of the man's being and knotted into a heavy mass of responsibility that nobody else but Sylar knew existed. Peter was brave, resilient and more honest than Sylar had even thought (which was saying something) and he positively glowed beside the rest of the world that Sylar had known – packed with liars, cheats and manipulators. A swell of endearment bubbled within him then, and he felt the emotion be recognised at once and humbly cherished by the other person currently sharing his mindset.

It seemed preposterous to be reading every inch of someone who was also currently reading him, but yet it unfurled flawlessly between them, like they were having a whole conversation that was exchanged in the blink of an eye and in one single, passing thought. This was indescribable, indestructible, the most unique sensation Sylar had ever known, it was unparalleled, so profound, more intimate than any sexual act Sylar had ever experienced because this bond held it's foundation in its innocence.

There was a lot of conflicting information between the two intertwined men: the different lives they'd led, the different emotions they'd felt... Nathan was a constant, stark poke in the eye whenever he came around – which was a considerable amount. Not that Sylar could blame Peter for that, of course. Even though the man had forgiven enough to allow his very soul to collide with Sylar's in such a personal way as this, Nathan wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. That was clear. However, he wasn't a cruel obstacle... more like a distant mountain with a looming shadow they could learn to live by. And that was comforting to know, on both ends.

*

It had been true when Peter had said he trusted Sylar. But if it hadn't been, he would have done so faithfully now. The man's guilt and self-hatred were filthy, mouldy blemishes eating away at a pure foundation, and Peter ached in tandem with Sylar's feelings. He felt every single blip on their shared conscience, saw every single person who had met their end in this man. He couldn't comprehend Matt holding onto his stubborn ego if the cop had seen even a glimpse in Sylar's mind of what Peter now saw in his soul.

Remorse. That was the primary factor. So much regret. Peter could touch the rumpled scars within the recovering killer, could see the stitches where he was slowly healing over. A lot of work had already been completed, that was clear... but still, Sylar was nursing so much pain inside. Nobody would ever guess from that confident swagger and smug smirk how heavy these insecurities were within him, and Peter was suddenly aware how much he, himself, had underestimated them in the past. As he clambered his way through all the debris, he meticulously picked up every horrid deed in hopes of clearing the path, and was burned and wounded by them all in turn. It hurt, but he felt Sylar trailing him from behind to pick up all the dropped pieces so he could help put Peter together again.

Suddenly it washed over him wondrously, golden and sweet like honey: the gratitude this man cradled in a special little alcove all for Peter. Sylar trusted himself when Peter trusted him, and his desire to change and be a good person and make up for what he'd done was unmistakeable... but a dark fear the man held for himself still lingered. Was he truly worthy of forgiveness? Did he even deserve to be saved...? These thoughts would take a long time to dissolve for good, if they ever did at all.

The empathetic man swam through the channel that had opened between them, doing his best to reach the ends of the earth within this other person and feeling his own furthest corners being tickled in return. These two men, abandoned and broken and hurt, two sides of the same coin, soulmates in a way they'd never before admitted, worked together to quell the disturbances within themselves. Like two jagged sea shells that fit perfectly when matched: they might both be a little worn and beaten, and both carried their own stories, but those differences only complimented the other side when they united in a perfect fit.

*

Unable to determine the passage of time – it could have been days, it could have been hours or it all could have happened in a single heartbeat – Peter finally pulled away, snapping them both out of the connection like a bucket of cold water being dropped over their heads. Panting for breath and exhausted by their newfound knowledge (if not from the effort of having one's soul read from cover to cover) Sylar blinked rapidly at Peter and saw his own expression of exhilarated bewilderment beaming back at him.

They laughed together in tired, short bursts, collapsing back against the pillows on the couch, once again side by side, and slowly caught their breath. “You've always been able to get under my skin, Petrelli... just never _quite_ so literally.” Sylar hummed, very aware of his companion's deep chuckle reverberating through the couch, very aware of his physical being so close by. He didn't regret what had just happened.

Lying entangled in the afterglow of each other, of what they'd just done, it took a long minute before Peter punctuated the room with anything other than their heavy breathing. “You read me too?” He croaked, exhausted, a smile playing with his squint lips. His eyelids were heavy and he lazily flicked his hair out of his face as he simply looked at Sylar.

*

So much had just become so clear, and Peter was overcome by the power he'd just used and experienced, the tang of Sylar still new and fresh inside where it had mingled with his own being. He was still aware of the raw wounds of the man's hidden pain, and somehow now could see that little bit _more_ of this other person as they, lay panting and spent, after the wild ride. He'd never felt anything like that, and even now the fallout was one hundred times more fulfilling than any other type of climax Peter had encountered in his life.

Sylar seemed to accept that Peter's assessment wasn't an accusation and smiled shyly back at him, biting his lower lip. He expelled a muffled noise of laughter and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the couch and exposing his throat. His profile was quite magnificent, his chest visibly rose and fell with each laboured breath and suddenly Peter was overcome by the insinuation of this cool-down period. He pushed the inappropriate thought away as Sylar's drawl rolled out of that throat. “I wasn't going to -”

“No, no, it's okay.” Peter insisted, struggling to get a proper lungful of air, himself. He had felt the precise moment when Sylar had accidentally slipped into his mind and the exact second the guy had intended to retreat, but by that time Peter had seen enough to know he wanted to share himself in return for the freedom Sylar had granted him. “I'm glad you did.” The aching sting of guilt that Sylar carried within him was strong, but so was the guy's whole-hearted investment in this partnership. He knew that Sylar had needed to see Peter's side of the story, to know how solidly he was in this too. Exposing his innermost thoughts and feelings to someone else in this way for the first time wasn't an easy decision after a lifetime of being used and dropped repeatedly by the people who could, and had, hurt him most. But this was different. And now both men knew that for sure.

Sylar chortled to himself again. “So you really _are_ just that foolishly selfless. I'd always wondered if you, y'know, put it on a bit...”

“Hey...!”

“And I'm not the only one. Parkman thought so too...”

“Then clearly _Parkman_ is wrong about _both_ of us.”

Sylar nodded at the ceiling, his smile lingering for a moment before his lips fell to their natural full pout. He turned his head to examine Peter silently, his hair scratching against the course fabric behind him. A little crease appeared between thick brows. “You're _really_ scared about the future.” It was a statement, not a question. The drowsy buzz in the air diluted as the serious topic of the night came back around to play again. At least their chosen distraction had been a good one, and Peter drew courage from that. It had been fun while it lasted.

“And you're not.” He arched his eyebrows gently, also stating what he knew to be true. He appreciated Sylar's optimism, but just couldn't bring himself to share it, despite having had a taste from the man himself. It probably should have eased his worries, but instead Sylar's viewpoint just made Peter more aware of what he had to look out for.

“So you're going back? To undo it?” Sylar's light expression of understanding eased him.

“If I can get a hold of Hiro, yeah.” Peter buried a hand in his hair, keeping it back from his face for a moment. “I guess it's better to try before things get too far gone, right?” His eyes searched Sylar for an encouraging answer, for reassurance.

“Mm-hm.” He received one in the form of a reserved little nod. But then Sylar's facade cracked a little with a sombre twitch of an eyebrow. Concerned, Peter pushed himself forward a bit so he could rest his elbows on his knees and shifted a little to get comfortable again.

“What's up?” He asked quietly. At Sylar's hesitance he continued. “Hey, you can tell me anything. After what we just did to each other, I don't think there's any part of you I don't know.” He said with a little smile, allowing the truth of those words to warm him.

“You make it sound dirty...” Sylar leered but it was a little half-hearted. The man sighed, then assumed an imitation of Peter's tense pose on the couch. “It's nothing. I want to help save the world, but I'm just thinking that if you go back and stop Claire jumping, then we won't have... well, done what we just did yet. We'll have to do it all over again.”

Peter laughed suddenly, startling Sylar. “I guess. Or I could take you with me? Then we both remember everything.” He waited for the cogs to fit into place in his friend's mind. Deep, dark eyes brightened when it all made sense.

“Hmmm... I _have_ always wanted to try time-travelling... Maybe we could do that infuriating thing Hiro does when he bop – bop – bops around faster than you can catch him?”

Drawing comfort from his companion's proximity and feeling the guy's aura continue to buzz away inside him, Peter pulled his phone out of his pocket to search for Hiro's number. A mass of voicemail messages from Noah Bennet awaited him, but Peter deliberately ignored them and scrolled through his contacts instead.

If only one thing were to be taken from the experience of reading Sylar's soul while Sylar read his own, at least it had helped them come to a shared conclusion about the future. Although Sylar was still on the fence about the whole thing, Peter was aware, he was still willing to help Peter in this task to save the world if they needed to do so. Peter knew it wasn't the most gratifying effect of their ordeal, but for now it was the most important, and now that his friend was on board with this plan, the empath began to feel better for having a course of action. He tried not to picture the site of the carnival as it must be currently, he didn't want to imagine Claire probably being pencilled into every major broadcasting network for the rest of her life, and most of all he couldn't bring himself to think of all the people out there right now, who's abilities might cause the end of the world. But it wouldn't come to that, anyway! Hiro would fix everything, one way or another!

The line failed to connect three times before Peter was forced to give up. He swore and clutched desperately after the temporary calm that had touched him just a second ago. He tried not to worry about what Hiro's disappearance could mean. Sylar's “Maybe he's not “here”here right now. You can hardly call him in the past, can you?” was reassuring, and Peter remembered the way Hiro and Ando had teleported out of the carnival so soon after Claire's fall. Perhaps they were away fixing things right now...?

*

It was hardly news to discover the entirety of Peter's feelings on the whole end-of-the-world problem that had crept up on them, but it was the strength of the urge to fix the issue that had surprised Sylar. He didn't even know why – surely by now he shouldn't still be underestimating the very same guy who had bested him repeatedly back in the day? However, after touching over the full extent of the empath's fear, his unfounded guilt – as if this was all his fault – and his determination to try to make things right, Sylar was now more sure than ever that he wanted to continue to help people. He wanted to aid Peter in his quest, he wanted to become heroes together and he really wanted to try Hiro's delightfully fun teleporting trick! Just... after a snack and a nap.

It was too early in the morning now to do anything more right now, Sylar was ravenously hungry and drowsy with exhaustion (apparently eight hours in a trance-like sleep didn't come with the same befits as real rest). He couldn't possibly do anything more stressful tonight than heat up a frozen pizza or three, and seeing as there was nothing much happening yet, ability-wise, Sylar chose to tend to the current matters while Peter would rather fuss over something that couldn't even be fixed right now.

Later, though, Sylar would help. When he could, he would do his part to prove himself to the world, to prove that he _was_ a hero now! The lingering taste of something so sweet, his good deed at the carnival last night, had already gotten him hooked... and Sylar finally understood why the so-called heroes he'd used to resent kept bouncing back at him time and time again. Now (he thought a little smugly) he would be one of them. And he would do it better than any of them had! Except perhaps Peter, of course. It would take a _long_ time before he could compete with _that_ self-torturing do-gooder at his best.

The man in question tried to uselessly phone the time-traveller once more, before giving up again and letting out a grunt of frustration that almost competed with the angry growls of Sylar's neglected stomach. “You'll just have to wait, Peter, you can catch him when he's back. No big deal, right?” He rested a hand on Peter's shoulder, patting lightly. If this intelligent man knew anything, it was that Peter Petrelli wouldn't be stopped by supposed-to-be-soothing words alone. No, he needed a full performance, a hypnotist and a marching band to drill the message in, but Sylar didn't have the strength to do the whole rigmarole just now.

“It _is_ a big deal...” Peter muttered and Sylar chose to ignore that last comment. He stretched and clambered to his feet, leaving Peter to fret uselessly over his phone, his current lifeline. The paramedic knew where the spare bedding was, and Sylar was confident that the guy could see to himself if he chose to do so, and so followed his desperate appetite to the fridge at long last.

*

Peter frowned after his friend's retreating back, rubbed the wrong way by his aloofness. While he did recognise that Sylar was right and that there was literally nothing Peter could do to reach Hiro if he was out of time, the man's 'kick back, wait it out' attitude just seemed so ridiculous for this scenario. And although Peter had literally just swam in the depths of the guy's soul, he still couldn't understand how Sylar's endless love affair with food could take priority while the world was certainly ending just outside the window.

“You can sit and wait for Doc Brown all you want, Peter. _I_ intend to take care of the important stuff: like not leaving my bed for four days straight...”

Sylar shot a glance over his shoulder, as if perhaps waiting for some input on Peter's part. So the paramedic laughed half-heartedly to please him but didn't reply further, turning his attention back to his silent phone as Sylar rummaged around the freezer without saying another word.

Peter wanted to talk more before going to bed, there was still so much that needed working out and, most importantly, Peter wanted to spend more time with his companion. He wasn't ready for them to separate yet, but Sylar had made his plans clear and Peter didn't want to impose. The idea tiptoed on the precipice of his mind – to just reach out and drag Sylar back to the couch to keep him company while his worst fear unfolded around him in real time. But he said nothing, did nothing, as his best friend strayed further from his side than he had done in hours. Peter suppressed a shiver at the sudden draft.

Maybe Hiro really _was_ taking care of things? Maybe by the morning when Peter woke up he wouldn't remember of any of this because it hadn't happened? He dared to hope so. And if not, then tomorrow he'd try to contact Hiro again. And again, and again, if need be. It wasn't his best plan by far, but it wasn't his worst, either. And at least having a plan was a step in the right direction – one Peter badly needed to soothe the terrors that would likely keep him up all night. All he could do was try after all, and so try he would, for as long as it took to save his precious world.

 

***

 

It was a city street. New York, by the looks of it.

Hiro Nakamura, fresh from the Sullivan Brother's carnival, shuffled down the street, looking around to fully absorb his surroundings. He saw yellow taxi cabs lining the streets, frozen in traffic as they might have been in time. Civilians bustled down the sidewalk and a few _flying mans_ zoomed past overhead. As he sidled further down the block the man saw the masks of terror on the people's faces as they fled past, their body language deteriorating the further he ventured down the line, and forced himself to wade deeper into the danger they were trying to escape. It was a hero's duty, after all.

He saw a crowd of people up ahead twisting in a vicious, violent fight – some littering the blood-soaked ground and others giving everything they had, but they were outmatched. He watched as more lives were cut down in their prime, he heard the yells of agony echo out. Then, finally, he saw the faces of the two men at the centre of the brawl, the ones responsible for so much carnage and destruction. Together they performed a deadly dance in the centre of it all, unstoppable. Unbeatable. Unmistakable.

Peter Petrelli and Sylar.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, quite a long chapter – hopefully you're still reading ^.^ I really hope you're enjoying the story so far and please don't be shy to let me know what you think! I have to say that this fic won't be updated as regularly as “Gabriel Gray is Dead” was (as much as I'd love it to be), but don't worry – hopefully I can get the next part done and posted reasonably soon. X)
> 
> In the meantime, please go take a look at my new Petlar fanart ^.^ http://thefieryeclipse.deviantart.com/art/If-You-Don-t-Jump-You-ll-Never-Know-If-You-Can-Fly-625011342


	4. The Morning After

The winter sun was already weakly rising over Washington D.C. by the time he even got close to his apartment. It had been one of the most gruelling nights of his life – and considering his vast, decorated history, that was saying something. His joints were aching and his fingers heavy as he fumbled with the multiple security locks on the inside of his door, but there was still work to be done before he could even contemplate the sleep he so desperately needed.

Instead, Noah Bennet set about unearthing stashed Primatech boxes overflowing with old case files. He sifted through the folders, sorting them into piles, while his cheap coffee machine whirred and sloshed too loudly amidst the clutter of almost empty cupboards and surfaces that was supposed to be a “kitchen”. He had _extremely_ busy days, weeks, months or even (most likely) years running away ahead of him, and the company man knew that the best preparation he could possibly grant himself right now was a continuous cycle of hot caffeine. Even if it was watery and rancid and congealed at the bottom of the mug.

Ever since Claire's jump last night, Noah had been stretched in all directions constantly: he was a concerned father, a retired company agent and a government asset all at once. Primarily he worried about his daughter and what the world was going to do to her now, but once the government had picked through the ashes of the Building 26 fiasco for anyone who could help, and therefore propositioned him, there had been no time (or means) to even share one word with Claire. In fact, he hadn't even set eyes on her for hours now, except on every available screen he happened to pass. He suspected, and this man's suspicions were very rarely proven wrong, that this was mostly due to Claire purposely trying to avoid him. It stung of course, but she was a big girl now, despite his valiant attempts to suppress the natural phenomenon called ageing. She'd made her decision, and Noah would appear to give her the space she so desperately craved to deal with the repercussions of her actions on her own. At least temporarily. Until she undoubtedly needed him again.

In the meantime, Noah had more than enough information to keep him distracted from his fatherly duties. Seeing as the Building 26 disaster had crashed and burned so epically, Noah had found himself to be one of the few people left with experience in dealing with abilities and their, sometimes unstable, owners. He couldn't exactly turn down the government when they came knocking. They desperately required his advice on how best to deal with the existence of this new species of super humans, and Noah... honestly, Noah just liked to be needed. And also thought it better not to let the world fall to pieces, which it certainly would without him.

Meetings had spanned for hours, bustling with dozens of different men in suits and uniforms swapping in and out like a grotesque game of musical chairs, and Noah had lost count of the amount of hands he'd shaken and departments he'd been shipped around. It was a weak facade, loosely strung together at the edges to conceal this fact, but to a man with Noah's life experience it was blatantly obvious: to put it simply, nobody had a clue how to deal with the shitstorm Claire had rained down upon the world, and everyone was trying to pass the crisis onto someone else as quickly as possible.

Although the outward reception of abilities had been, astonishingly, positive – behind the scenes things weren't so rosy. Not that Noah expected them to be. The world had disfigured literally overnight, and things were bound to be crazy and confusing at the beginning. There had been discussions about setting up another Company as a safety precaution, or keeping everything above board and official this time... but until the dust settled nobody could come to a suitable agreement.

And that was only on the government's side.

Noah stretched his stiff back and fetched his scalding “coffee”, returning to look down upon the mosaic of folders he'd strewn out across his apartment floor. There were so many, and that was by no means all of them. This was barely the tip of the iceberg. He'd been told sometime around six that morning by another rotating mob of businessmen that he was to be offered a job reasonably soon, although time was yet to tell what exactly said job would entail. Until then he was to “wait for more information” like a novice to this field or something equally as insulting while they continued to leech out of him every ounce of valuable information he could provide. Or so he had them believe, anyway.

Yes, Noah had participated and divulged the identities and abilities of many known specials. Just doing his part to help his country. But he knew better than to even think of outing Angela Petrelli or her family. He wouldn't endanger her, he wouldn't betray her, and he definitely wasn't about to admit that he'd been conversing with her on and off all night in secret.

Mrs Petrelli, as stoic and unreadable as ever, was perhaps Noah's most valuable ally at present. And her convenient ability was only a small factor in that. Within minutes of the event at the Sullivan Brothers' Carnival having transpired, Angela had been on the case and calling in regularly both to give and receive updates. Truthfully, Noah didn't know what she planned to do (he didn't even know what the _world_ planned to do) but he had long learned to trust that woman. Or to at least keep on her good side, no matter the cost. Although she claimed her prophetic dreams had so far evaded her all night, her caution over exactly what information was suitable to leak to the government and what was too precious to share happened to coincide perfectly with Noah's own mindfulness. There was a certain... precision to this task, and one that he fully intended respect. Whichever discount sham of a unit the government eventually managed to pull together, Noah knew there were some things they would never quite be equipped, or allowed, to handle.

Which was why this particular batch of Primatech files had conveniently neglected to come up in conversation.

As the morning wore on, the piles of folders multiplied and the gunk at the bottom of Noah's mug grew with each bitter refill. In the old days this would have been a duty gifted to a lesser agent, but seeing as Noah no longer had a team or even a partner (Lauren had been quickly snatched back by the CIA hours ago and he doubted she'd even want to leave her official job to join him at this even if he had a way to ask her, and he hadn't even caught a hint of Tracy since she'd saved his life back at the carnival), he fully invested himself in the labour with the same thorough patience with which he tackled everything.

The most important factor here was working out who deserved to be surveyed, either under “official” policies or by other means, and who wasn't an immediate threat. Paper crinkled as he flipped through the pages and a stream of familiar faces flashed by (with a noticeable lack of a paper trail for a particular, blonde teenager), among which were: Eric Doyle, Adam Monroe, Eden McCain, Hiro Nakamura, Matt Parkman, Peter Petrelli, Arthur Petrelli, Angela Petrelli, Nathan Petrelli, Niki Sanders, Tracy Strauss, Mohinder Suresh, Ted Sprague... the most dangerous specials. Many of them were already deceased, he noted, mostly at the hand of the most threatening person of all. The one who had constantly evaded Noah over the years, the one who left an effortless trail of destruction in his wake, the one who grew only stronger with each passing day: Gabriel Gray. Otherwise known as Sylar.

Whereas Noah was wary of the haphazard way the government were attempting to “handle things” (he _really_ didn't want another Danko scenario on his hands) the biggest stain on his awareness was his sighting of Sylar at the carnival last night. With Peter Petrelli.

Normally Peter's mere involvement in a scenario should dispel any ideas of an evil scheme, especially after Noah had seen him up close in action on a couple of cases, just recently. But Noah was well aware that the trusting, gullible Petrelli had been tricked at least once, almost catastrophically, in the past by someone with a dark purpose. Adam, however, had been a stranger who had garnered Peter's trust slowly over time... but Sylar. Sylar?! The very same man who Peter had wanted to murder merely weeks ago at Nathan's funeral?! Who already had a damaged, ugly and unstable relationship with Peter even before the Senator had been killed?!

It just didn't make sense. And in Noah's experience, that was never a good sign.

The coupling of those particular men (not to mention _abilities_ ) was the last thing the world needed right now. The last thing _Noah_ needed! The pair had dropped off the radar immediately after Claire's dive, could be plotting or practising god knows what together right this second... and nobody would be able to stop them. At least not easily. All it took was one public glimpse of Sylar and his potential, and this fragile truce between _them_ and _us_ would shatter in a global panic! The monster in question had never been one to pass up the chance to show off in the past, and Noah doubted he'd be shy now that every camera in the world was watching for any slight slip-up. Some might call Noah paranoid, but it wasn't exactly encouraging that his many voicemail and text messages to Peter had been pointedly ignored.

The dusty sun glinted off the man's glasses, catching the reflection of the murderer from the page before him. He bared his teeth in a snarl borne from memories alone, chucked Sylar's file away, gagged on the gooey dregs of his coffee and watched the paper flutter to the ground... rather coincidentally landing atop Peter Petrelli's. It didn't take a genius to guess that the pair were likely hiding out in one of their apartments – that was if they were still together, and judging by the touchy-feely, best-buddies routine he witnessed last night, Noah didn't think it much of a stretch of the imagination to assume so. But even if he had a suitable team and weapons at his disposal, storming into a room, guns blazing, against _those_ two particular men would never go down well.

A gut feeling alone wasn't enough to warrant an attack, but Noah was far from finished here. While the officials took their time scrambling about, _he_ would not willingly lie down and do nothing. Any scenario that carried even a hint of Sylar was already tainted in this ex-agent's eyes, and he just _knew_ that the son of a bitch was cooking up something... unfortunately, without proof, there wasn't much he could really do about that. Especially not if that government job (whatever it was to be when the time came around) tied his hands against the certain type of, ah... _problem solving_ he had indulged in over his long career.

So in the interest of behaving, doing things quietly, and not at all to let his charges know he was onto them, Noah dug out his phone to call Peter for what could've been the hundredth time today, and it wasn't even ten o'clock yet.

 

***

 

Under the soft light of the timid sun, Peter woke to the sound of bustling, raucous and very _real_ life blaring away nearby. It was so foreign that for a moment he tensed up all over and couldn't draw breath, welded in place between itchy couch cushions and terrified to move a muscle. A few prolonged seconds dragged past while he lay there panicking, unsure where he was and choking on fear, before the events of last night slowly washed over him: the wall finally crumbling down, stepping into the real world at long last, flying to the carnival, stopping Samuel, watching Claire reveal abilities to the world and reading Sylar's soul in the safety of his apartment. Which was where he was now, Peter recalled finally.

So it had still happened. History hadn't been rewritten yet.

Still coming to, he scrubbed his eyes and allowed his pulse to even out while really taking the time to listen to the big bad world that he was once more a part of. Had it always been _that_ loud...? Now that he was awake, he couldn't comprehend how he had ever managed to sleep through the noise (even for only a few shaky hours) and although his entire being still burned with exhaustion, he knew there was no way he'd be able to drop off again now. It was a pity that his first night back in his own mind had been so broken, for Peter didn't think he'd ever craved anything more than the sweet, sweet relief of pure, honest sleep or missed anything more than the innocence of dreams that came from nobody's involvement but his own. Apparently, he was still left wanting.

The silver, cold, morning light was shattered into geometric shapes and intricate patterns on the floor and walls, filtering through the blinds and tinting the place with an ethereal glow. The city was alive and thriving right outside the window, and Peter had never noticed before the way it resonated even in the shelter of an apartment until he'd grown to know real, true silence. The vibrations of noises coming from other living beings aside from himself and Sylar were subtle, yet unavoidable, and being back here suddenly felt more unnatural than five years ever had within another man's head.

For a second he dreaded real life terribly, and longed to lock himself away again in a peaceful dreamland where nothing could reach him. But no, he would _not_ fall into that trap on his very first morning back! Sure, it was scary, it was _always_ going to be scary, he'd expected that. Perhaps not quite as much as he should have, but at least he'd been a little prepared. As daunting as it was, as much as he wanted to curl up here in this cosy, familiar-smelling, safe couch for the rest of the day, Peter knew it would only prolong his suffering in the long run. The only thing worse than actually getting off this couch and walking to meet the problem head-on would be avoiding it altogether.

So, taking deep breaths and forcing himself to be brave, he wriggled free of Sylar's spare sheets and the creaky couch and ventured forth into his first full day back in reality, shivering slightly. He had a plan to set into motion! Or... well, the beginnings of a half-plan that might or might not even be possible, at the very least.

*

Sylar had already had quite a productive morning. Upon waking a couple of hours ago he had showered, meticulously picked out his first new outfit in eight years (a mammoth task), re-arranged the entire kitchen and what little there was in the cupboards, and was now sitting at the table crunching on a bowl of cornflakes and drinking from a newly-salvaged glass – one of a matching set of four he hadn't even known he owned. All in all he was quite proud of himself and hoped it came across as effortless and impressive to Peter, who wouldn't know that arranging the kitchen had been far more strenuous than Sylar had remembered it being last time, or that he had stressed for a good half hour between wearing his usual, comfortable black or wearing a bright colour today just because he could (in the end he had settled for a neutral, soft grey hoodie).

He had just sat down at the table and set out another bowl for Peter when the man himself scuffed into sight at last: ruffled and crumpled in Sylar's borrowed, button up pyjamas. They were far too long for him and he looked ridiculous, but it was too cold in December for him to sleep in less, Sylar had insisted. It was true – it was cold enough in here for Sylar to see his breath clouding faintly from his nostrils – but most importantly, the sight of Peter Petrelli drowning inside Sylar's clothes was too hilarious to pass up.

“G'morning, sunshine. How'd you sleep?” Sylar asked casually, suppressing the stupid bubble of relief that expanded within him at finally setting eyes on his friend again. Sylar knew he cared for Peter, _obviously_ , but it surprised him a little to realise just how much he had missed the little man on his morning's lonely endeavour. He was very pleased indeed that the empath had stayed over last night. Just knowing he was close had been a little crutch of the familiar that Sylar had needed while everything else was so drastically different.

“I didn't.” Peter yawned. Although Sylar knew the guy still hadn't eaten since getting here last night and must be starved, instead of joining him at the table, Peter helped himself over to Sylar's empty bed and started to rummage around the surrounding area for something.

“You're not the only one...” The former villain chose not to cast up that it was mostly Peter's fault they'd both been up most of the night. The guy had jumped up to check his phone every time the damn thing had rang what felt like every ten minutes and pierced Sylar's eardrums with the unfamiliar, tinny jingle! He was waiting for a reply from Hiro, Sylar knew, but _he_ wasn't willing to forgo his precious sleep for the same cause Peter was, and had eventually caved in, stormed through and snatched the fucking phone away for the night. Peter should consider himself lucky that Sylar had only turned it off and hidden it, _not_ blasted the thing apart from the inside telekinetically, as much as his sleep-deprived, furious mind had been so inclined to do. Of course, the first thing the other man would do upon waking was locate the damn thing again.

Sylar scooped up another spoonful of cornflakes, chewing away while Peter ran a hand under Sylar's pillows and checked the bed covers. He remained silent, simply enjoying watching the other man search in all the wrong places like a child and his confiscated possession. He wondered when Peter would just ask for it back – probably not until he'd well and truly hunted himself out – but until then was happy to watch him struggle. Who needed a TV? A phone? The internet? Entertainment like this had proved to be pleasing enough for the past five years, and Sylar would still choose it over the morning news (and Claire Bennet's over-hyped face) any day.

“Y'know, I used to hate the silence...” Peter's vocal musing tapered off as he ducked behind the bed, disappearing from Sylar's line of sight momentarily. Then his voice floated over, tentative and slightly muffled. “D'you think we'll ever get used to this? Being back?”

Sylar pondered that for a second while he crunched. “I hope so.” He didn't need to have inspected every layer of Peter's being last night to interpret the insecurity there. One he, too, shared. Before, he had expected Peter to just jump back into life the way he always did everything: whole heartedly. But somehow it comforted Sylar to know he wasn't alone in pretending to be adjusting here better than he really was.

When the empath stood and dusted himself off, his excavation having proved unsuccessful, Sylar took pity on him at last and chucked the phone across the room. It had been hiding in plain sight, somewhere Sylar had known the guy would never look because he'd never give up: beside Peter's awaiting bowl on the tabletop.

*

“Thanks.” Peter fumbled to catch the phone, almost tripping over the too long pyjamas in the process. “Any calls?” He asked, in order to distract from his rather embarrassing performance.

“You could say that. Daddy Bennet has been a busy bee this morning...”

“Looks like he's not the only one.” Peter flashed an impressed look at his friend as he properly observed the re-arranged kitchen for the first time. His words were accepted modestly with a quiet smile.

Sylar hadn't been wrong: Peter found far too many messages waiting for him, easily double the amount since he'd last checked. And every single one was from Noah Bennet. There was still no word from Hiro Nakamura. Peter was a little disappointed to see nothing at all either from Claire (although she _had_ been more than busy after all), nothing from Emma, or even his own mother. Even if nobody knew he had been away for five years, it would still have been nice to think that someone at least cared about his part to play in stopping the carnival last night, or if he'd gotten away safely in the aftermath of Claire's stunt.

The last thing Peter thought about when saving the world was getting a thank you or any acknowledgement for his efforts... which was probably just as well, because he'd be left waiting a _long_ time. But it still hurt a little more after each event, once the dust settled and everyone else went off celebrating with their friends or family and Peter was left alone.

Except, this time he wasn't alone. This time he had Sylar.

That thought warmed him thoroughly from the inside out, and Peter actually turned his back so his friend wouldn't see the smile or blush tainting his features. It was a nice moment of realization, one Peter didn't want ruined by being laughed at or teased, playful or not. He re-focused his attention on his phone and the smile faded, replaced by an unpleasant weight in his stomach. He really ought to contact Noah before the device combusted, or before the unpredictable man tried other means to get the audience he so desperately wanted. Peter wouldn't even put it past him to zip-line through the window S.W.A.T. style if need be.

If only he could find Hiro... then the Noah-problem would be fixed along with everything else and Peter wouldn't even have had to listen to his reprimanding. He tried to contact the Japanese man once more to no avail, and cursed to himself.

“Hiro?” Sylar asked knowingly.

“Nothing.” Peter huffed. He contemplated peeking through the window to ensure the world was still standing, but didn't want to seem too paranoid first thing in the morning. He'd give it a few minutes.

“He must be out of time for a reason, Peter. All we can do is wait and hope he comes back with good news.”

“Right.” Peter scoffed. “When has someone ever come back from the future with good new-” Then his heart jumped as his phone went off in his hand, and he almost dropped the thing in his eagerness to answer. “Hiro?!”

“...No.”

Fuck. “Noah.” Peter sighed, rubbing a hand over his chin and meeting Sylar's eyes. Great. So much for avoiding the reprimanding. “Look, before you say anything – I can explain.”

Silence. “Really...? Explain what?” The man's voice was calm and controlled despite the urgency of his many previous calls, and lilted with curiosity. Already Peter felt his defences rising.

Ensuring to remain calm, his voice was gravelly but low. “Last night. We weren't doing anything wrong. We were trying to _help_ -”

“'We'...?”

Peter chewed his tongue and reluctantly spelled it out the way he knew Noah wanted to hear it. “Sylar.” He turned his back on his friend's foul expression. “He was there _with_ me. I know what you're thinking, Noah, but you're _wrong_.”

“Then enlighten me, Peter. What am I thinking?”

The empath bristled then, prickling under the weight of Noah's interrogation and hating the way the agent was getting him to do all the talking. He stopped and took a breath, recalling all the times he'd practised for this moment and drawing strength from Sylar's company behind him.

*

The former killer had listened intently so far, chewing his cereal as slowly and quietly as he could so as not to miss anything. Bennet's voice was distant but audible through the phone, and Sylar had heard everything so far. His knuckles were white around his spoon, he could feel the spotlight of accusation blaring down upon him and felt for Peter and his rushed, desperate declarations. He knew the little man had been dreading this, probably almost as much as Sylar had himself, but the fact that he was sticking to his guns and standing up to Noah when the time truly came meant more to Sylar than he knew how to express. It was the same as last night with Parkman, but Bennet was different. Somehow, this hit a lot closer to the tender spot within Sylar's chest.

He watched fondly as Peter rocked back and forth on the spot, watched the too long, gathered fabric of his pyjamas pool around his socks, and tried to catch every grain of the conversation while forcing himself to remain impassive for maximum clarity.

“Sylar has changed, Noah.” Peter stated quietly, powerfully, with 100% conviction. Sylar's throat tightened. “It's a long story, I don't really know how to explain it... but you have to believe me, alright? He doesn't want to hurt anyone – he _saved_ thousands of people last night.”

Sylar's lips curved into a sly smile at hearing those words being thrown at none other than Noah Bennet. _Sylar_ saving people?! _Sylar_ doing something for other people for once?! _Sylar_ a hero?! He could perfectly imagine the look on the man's face as the truth gagged him. Good. He hoped Noah choked on it. While he might have turned over a new leaf, while he might genuinely want to be a better person now, the mutual hatred between those two men wasn't going to magically disappear overnight. It would take a lot more than eight years of a mental punishment to well and truly wash away _those_ scars.

Sylar waited anxiously, straining his ears as if he could somehow hear Bennet's thought process through the ringing silence at the end of the phone. Finally, the other man sighed understandingly. “I'm sure you believe that, Peter, I'm sure he put on quite the performance. Hell, I'll even admit he can be quite convincing when he wants to be. It's all fine and dandy to see the good in people, but when it's not there... that can be extremely dangerous. Remember what happened with the Shanti Virus...? I don't for one minute think you'd go along with Sylar's sick plots willingly, and I'm not blaming _you_ -”

Peter drew in a sharp breath at the same moment Sylar accidentally electrocuted his metal spoon and burned the skin from his palm. “But you're blaming _him_?” Peter accused and shot a glance at Sylar over his shoulder.

The duo locked eyes for a long moment before Peter strode to the front door, excusing himself while Sylar felt his burn heal over. Not for the first time, he wished regeneration could fix emotional pain as well as physical. He sat in silence, alone for the first time in forever and sorely missed his companion's proximity in the vacant, gaping space where he should be. The cornflakes turned soggy, abandoned in favour of catching the muffled voice coming from the hall.

*

Furious, Peter shut Sylar's front door and paced avidly around the hall. He knew Sylar could hear Noah before, and fumed at the possible seeds of doubt having been planted when the one thing Sylar really needed right now was confidence. This time he didn't spare much effort to be polite, and ground his words out slowly and bitterly. “Listen to me: this is _not_ a trick! Okay, this is _real_! He's changed, he's sorry for what he's done, and he's trying to make up for that! I know it's hard to understand, but it's the _truth_!” He tried to keep his voice controlled, but Noah's certainty that Sylar could be nothing but evil (coupled with the nasty reminder about the time Peter had so stupidly trusted a wolf in sheep's clothing) had stabbed him deeper than he had been prepared for. The thread of his patience was taut and trembling, and his hold on it was slipping.

“You do realise who we're talking about, don't you? I have a hard time believing he's “changed” in such a short time...” It sounded like Noah was trying to come off as sympathetic, but his voice was still laced with accusation.

“Like I said, it's a long story.”

“Your mother and I are worried about you, Peter. Now, we don't blame you for falling victim to a mind trick or whatever he's sold you, but if you let us _help_ you -”

Pulled too far, the thread snapped clean in half and Peter positively growled. “You wanna talk about _mind games_...?! Then go ask Matt Parkman what he did to us!” His voice rang out in the narrow hall, and he prowled back and forth past the familiar door opposite Sylar's that he had never truly stepped behind, yet had known as home for the past two and a half years in a different life.

Again, when Noah spoke his voice was amicable, silky smooth and definitely calculated. He seemed to realise he was getting nowhere with the last tactic, and Peter seriously considered cutting him off before hearing another word. “Why haven't you been answering my calls, Peter?”

“I've been pre-occupied. In case you didn't realise, the world is kinda breaking down.”

“Yes it is. Which is why I need to know exactly what you've been doing since Claire jumped. We can't afford to have specials disappear at this, ah... fragile time. I'm sure you understand.”

So many questions ran through Peter's over-exerted, tired mind at once. 'We'...? A new company? Had it started already? Were the specials being rounded up and locked away? And what kind of evil plan exactly did Noah think he was working on with Sylar? The fear threatened to pull him under again, but before everything else, all Peter could focus on was what he'd _really_ done after the world had changed under that Ferris wheel. It was a spark of colour in an otherwise dark and drab landscape, and an afterglow of his and Sylar's soul-sharing escapade drained away the forefront of his anger. It had been precious, unique and wonderful... but there was no way in hell he was going to tell Noah Bennet any of that.

Instead Peter just pursed his lips, running an agitated hand through his hair. “I've been busy. Nothing that you need to worry about.”

“With... Sylar?” The slow question was a dubious assessment, heavy with implications and ideas the likes of which Peter didn't care to think of. The silent judgement ate away at him, along with the unfounded blame and the fact he knew that his argument had done nothing to convince anyone so far.

“Yes. With Sylar.” He stated bluntly. He was still tired after a terrible night's “rest”, starving and weak from lack of food and still burning under his failure to do anything to fix the future. A lecture was the _last_ thing on his to-do list that morning. “Look: we didn't do anything wrong, we're not gonna hurt anybody. We just want to be left alone.” The lack of reply said everything Peter needed to know. “If you still need convincing, talk to Parkman. Aside from that... take care of yourself, Noah.” He added bitterly, only due to a perceived obligation of his history with the man.

Peter hung up rather forcefully before giving Noah a chance to reply, took a moment to calm himself down, and turned to head back into Sylar's apartment. Only to almost bump into an elderly woman standing right behind him, holding her basket of laundry and wearing a disapproving frown on her face. Shit. Only then did Peter suddenly realise he'd been speaking rather loudly, and with total disregard for neighbours he'd completely forgotten existed.

In their dream world, there had been no fear of being overheard, as the only time Peter had ever spoken had been to Sylar, and there was nobody else around to overhear them. He had never had to watch who's doorstep he lingered around, what conversations were better held in private, or what he wore when out and about. He could only imagine what scenario this woman had concluded, and hoped she wouldn't connect the dots to powerful super humans possibly hiding out from an underground company that kidnapped people in secret.

Embarrassed, Peter sent his surveyor a small smile that wasn't returned, felt suddenly very stupid in pyjamas that were obviously too big and not his own, and slipped away inside Sylar's apartment before he could possibly make an even bigger mess of the morning. God, he badly needed to reintegrate back into the real world...

*

Sylar allowed Peter to flounder around for a moment, lock the front door securely and scuff over to join him at the table without telling his friend that despite his valiant attempts to protect him from Noah's painful opinions, he had heard the conversation anyway. Or at least Peter's side, but that was enough to fill in the blanks and discern Noah's point of view. And enough to have had Sylar swelling with pride and affection and the thrill of hearing someone defend him so loyally, for only the second time ever. Last night in Matt's kitchen had been the first time in his entire life he'd experienced anything close to that amount of trust, but this could only be described as 'better'.

After going so long receiving nothing but curses in this world, being seen as nothing but a monster, being called nothing more than a “son of a bitch” (at best)... Sylar didn't even have words to fathom what this meant, how amazing it felt to be something _more_ to someone else for once.

It was probably too soon to request another dose of Lydia's ability to let Peter know without having to condense it into a coherent sentence, so instead Sylar just helpfully pulled the second chair out from the table as Peter approached and subtly blinked away the water brimming his eyelashes.

*

Peter sat and cleared his head for a good few seconds, trying to let the nasty phone call wash off him as insignificant. He knew, somehow just knew, that Sylar had heard every word he'd said. The acknowledgement flowed between them like smoke in the air, and they didn't need to say anything aloud.

Really, it _didn't_ matter what Noah or anyone else thought! Peter believed that. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt, just a little. And as for the keeping-tabs-on-people part... that was a matter best held until after breakfast, at the very least. Finally, Peter turned his attention to the bowl set out before him, his stomach threatening to let out a very undignified rumble. But all that greeted him was a nice, tasty bowlful of thin air.

*

“You all out?” Peter asked genuinely, gesturing to the bowl before him. Sylar tried not to laugh at his cluelessness.

“No.” He said simply, catching his last spoonful of soggy cereal. Peter's head twitched a little in question, and Sylar was too touched by the guy's recently demonstrated loyalty to drag it out for fun, as he might have usually. Instead he just set it out simply for that little brain to comprehend. “Why didn't you ever tell me you don't like cornflakes?”

Again, Peter's head twitched, like a puppy unable to understand it's command. Sylar smiled at him, both to ensure him he wasn't in trouble, and to express his own amusement. He waited until the cogs finally fell into place and Peter's eyes widened. “Oh! You... last night? You... you saw that?”

Sylar's smile widened under Peter's shy look. “I guess you were right: after what we did, there's nothing about you I don't know anymore.”

He now knew Peter detested the plain, non-sugary, non-kiddie breakfast Sylar had set out for him almost every morning for over two years. He knew that the man had only eaten it that first time because back then such a tiny, kind gesture had been so rare, and Peter hadn't wanted to turn it down or ruin it. He knew that after Sylar had kept serving the cornflakes, and Peter had kept eating them, he had passed the point of no return and decided it was too late to say anything, and so just never had. Solely so he wouldn't hurt Sylar's feelings.

Aside from that morning's argument with Noah, Peter suffering in silence through the breakfast ordeal every morning must just have been the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for Sylar. Which was pathetic, really. And also wonderful. “I'm afraid I don't have any of that stuff you like. I was thinking that we should go to the store today, you can get some then. But in the meantime, I can put some sugar cubes in milk for you...?” He teased, and Peter ducked behind his long hair to hide a guilty grin.

“At this point, I'm actually so hungry I'd eat a whole box of cornflakes if you have them.”

Sylar chuckled at Peter's caught-out expression, and saved the guy from having to further dig himself out the hole he'd crafted for himself. “It's alright, I found some food while going through the cupboards this morning.”

*

Sylar stood and gathered his spoon and bowl, crossing to the sink. “I already made you an omelet. Well, half an omelet...” He nodded his head at an awaiting, perfectly-whisked egg mixture on the counter... and a bag of sugar set out mockingly beside it.

Despite the already difficult morning and what was undoubtedly still to come that day, Peter laughed. He joined Sylar at the counter, catching the other man's satisfied little snigger, and set to work finishing making his breakfast. Again, the omelet was such a tiny, kind gesture like that first bowl of cornflakes made for him so long ago... the distinction between Sylar-the-monster and Sylar-Peter's-friend was enormous, and it all came down to the little effort put in to make someone else breakfast.

Noah's call seared through him again sourly, and Peter wished he'd never answered the phone. He wished Claire had never jumped from that wheel and thrown the world into such turmoil. He wished things could be simple, that everyone could be happy and safe and that he could do right by everyone who needed him. He would fight for it, of course, but Peter Petrelli was a dreamer at heart, and so he continued to wish on the sidelines. And most of all, Peter wished that the rest of the world could see the same man standing beside him that he did.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay with this update, and thanks for reading and being so patient! As always, I hope you liked this chapter ^.^ I've almost finished the next one too - they were supposed to be one chapter but the word count got way out of control, so I split it into two X) Shouldn't take too long to get finished though and I'll try my best to get it posted soon :)


	5. Chasing Tomorrow

Sylar had never thought to appreciate the pristine condition of everything back in Parkman's mind prison until he was cursed with a wobbly shopping cart sporting a squeaky front wheel. The thing rattled along like no one's business, swerving too loosely around corners and rolling away on its own if ever he accidentally let go of the handle. He regretted sneakily choosing the “easiest” job (pushing the cart) over lifting the groceries from the shelves. If he'd known what a task this would turn out to be, he'd have graciously offered it to Peter.

As it was, Sylar squeaked his way along the isles in stride with his friend, both men slightly jumpy and uncomfortable swarming through the mass of other shoppers. And this was a smaller store, too, one they'd deliberately chosen so it would be more quiet and they'd be less likely to be recognised. Or intimidated. It was the strangest feeling to be doing something so glaringly... _domestic_ in this realm which Sylar had terrorized and conquered just yesterday, to them. It was almost embarrassing, despite the fact he'd shopped with Peter many a time in _their_ city. It must have been the outsiders changing things, he decided, and vowed to set out on the right foot today.

However, it wasn't just rehabilitation that was the problem – the city was still reeling in the aftermath of the revelation of abilities. Peter and Sylar tried to keep their heads down and look as innocent as possible, but it was difficult not to notice or be affected by the news when everyone was whispering about it and Claire's face was plastered over every newspaper and TV screen they passed. “Miracle Girl!”, “Indestructible Girl!”, “The Face of the New World?” jumped out at them constantly, along with congratulations and encouragements for other evolved humans. And of course the occasional themed article headed “They Are Among Us...”.

“They're acting like we're aliens or something.” Peter grumbled, busying himself in the freezer section while Sylar rolled his eyes at a printed interview with a “witness” claiming “they're lizards beneath the skin!”. It was irritating, yes, but mostly just ridiculous. It didn't bother him that much, truth be told, but he could tell Peter was still coiled like a spring and had yet to burst. “Is it that hard to believe we're just people too?” He grunted. Then grunted again with more effort. Only then did Sylar notice he was struggling to lift too many cartons of a particular, honeycomb ice cream he had an unhealthy addiction to, and which he had subsequently corrupted Sylar with a while back.

“Try not to let it get to you.” He soothed, ducking to help Peter with the precious cargo. “Besides, I'm sure little _Claire_ is more than enjoying all this attention...” He straightened with a fair share of the cartons, then hurried after the fucking cart before it strayed too far without him.

“She did _not_ just do this for attention.” Peter stated promptly, expressing through his glare that that was the end of it.

“No. Not _just_...” Sylar hummed, turning his back on yet another front page story about Claire that floated past in someone's basket. It featured one of the new batch of professional photos she'd obviously had taken last night: styled and painted to the nines, lit by dramatic lighting, splattered in artfully placed blood, and with no doubt her real ribs sticking through her torn skin, she looked every bit the new, shiny celebrity that she had become overnight. Peter could claim all he wanted that she'd done it solely to help the world, and it wasn't that Sylar didn't agree to an extent... he just wasn't as blinded by affection as his trusting companion was. And he also didn't think quite so highly of the former cheerleader.

*

The pair weaved in and out of the aisles, avoiding the eyes of passers-by and steadily filling the increasingly disobedient cart. They tried to act casual, but couldn't help but marvel at the little details like _unfamiliar faces_ , like _children_ , like _music on the radio_ that kept unfolding around them. It was odd having to make way for other people besides themselves, finding some shelves empty or someone standing in the way of what they wanted, but in its own way it was quite... nice. To be in the midst of it all. It had been so long that Peter had almost forgotten how much he liked to be around people, and as long as nobody moved too quickly or spoke too loudly, he was happy to watch them and absorb the many stories and emotions bubbling away inside this one hub of everyday human life.

Overall, it wasn't so bad being back. His favourite part of the morning had transpired almost as soon as they'd entered the store. A little boy was struggling to reach some marshmallows on a high shelf, and without even hesitating Sylar had helped him, smiling and gentle and softly-spoken. Peter had been winded by the memory of a future long lost, of seeing an alternate version of his friend cutting waffles for his young son... Sylar also happened to be dressed similarly to how the man in the future, Gabriel, had been. Minus the glasses and apron, of course. It touched Peter's heart even more than he would have expected. After, when Sylar had caught his smile and pushed him to reveal what was so amusing, Peter kept his thoughts to himself and said nothing more than “that was nice of you.” But he had buzzed off the moment for a good four aisles or so. So had Sylar, he knew.

Peter was rummaging around the depths of the juice fridge (pulp for himself, smooth for Sylar, he ensured) when they experienced the first sign of conflict so far – two men passed by, arguing vehemently. Peter minded his own business and didn't listen in, just winced at the noise and at the men's broken relationship, but when he turned to dump the juice into the hefty cart, a visible change had overcome Sylar within seconds of his back being turned.

“Hey... what's up?” Peter asked quietly, taking in the guy's raised shoulders, soft eyes and peaked eyebrows. He told himself not to jump to conclusions and assume the worst about the end-of-the-world scenario, but somehow he doubted that had caused this precise reaction. No, this was something else.

*

The arguing men – brothers, Sylar assumed, judging by their physical similarities and the way they had clearly rehearsed this dynamic for many years – disappeared down a nearby aisle, but their raised voices and passionate exclamations continued to reach his ears long after he lost sight of them. For a moment there he'd actually felt _good_ being back in the real world. Happy, even. He'd almost felt like a normal human being and not a reformed killer with an ocean's worth of blood on his hands. He'd even been comfortable enough to venture forth and help that kid with the marshmallows, and the rewarded look of admiration and the knowledge that he'd done something good had been more than worth it. Now that happy reverie had been rudely pierced by the blade of affliction when it sliced past, and Sylar was cruelly reminded of his own mistakes one more time out of thousands.

One mistake, in particular: Nathan. It was always Nathan.

He met concerned eyes and felt only worse. He remembered how Peter had looked yesterday, how happy he'd been, even while he had been processing the words... then the hurt and fury that had ripped away that happiness at the most inopportune moment. He remembered the pain in Peter's voice, then the edge to his gaze and the toughened armour he'd worn for most of the night afterwards...

“I just realised I never said sorry.” Sylar confessed quietly, seeing with another stab to the heart that Peter had finally remembered to get him smooth juice this time. Bravely, he forced his gaze to hold Peter's, ready to watch him crumble in realisation all over again if need be. It was just vitally important he get this out. “About what happened yesterday... what I said... and then the wall broke and the carnival happened and everything else and I forgot to say it...” He tapered off when Peter's expression shattered. The smaller man blanched and his brow hardened, exactly the way he had looked standing before those familiar bricks last night just minutes before the wall broke. “I just, I didn't mean to. I wasn't thinking -”

“Just... don't. Don't remind me.” Peter's voice lowered and he held up a hand to cut Sylar off. Clearly this was still a sore subject, so Sylar obliged and merely hauled the shopping cart down the cereal aisle in Peter's wake without saying another word.

*

The memory alone was enough to make Peter feel sick, and he'd much rather tuck it away and never recall it again if he had the choice. He'd been caught so off guard, been so embarrassed, so angry... angry enough to cast a downer over what should have been the ecstatic moment they finally reached their impossible freedom. When it came down to Nathan... Sylar had known better. It didn't matter anyway, not now that so much had changed so fast. That part of their lives was over now, and the dark stain of the encounter had been overwritten by the wondrous experience of freedom, saving the world, and using Lydia's ability on each other to clean up the few straggling titbits they didn't already know about the other. Peter had actually forgotten the argument until Sylar had gone and kicked the shrapnel back into his face.

He despised the reminder, because even though Peter had lost his brother long ago now, Nathan was a wound that ran directly through him like a blade to the heart and would scar him forever. He hated remembering that his friend Sylar was the same person who had stolen his brother from him, although he could never really forget it. Sometimes it was easy to pretend it had been someone else entirely, a villain who had since died and disappeared from the face of the Earth entirely (which, in a sense, was _true_ ), but really he remembered every detail too well. He also knew how badly Sylar wanted to change, how hard he had worked at it, how truly remorseful he was. All Peter could do was take him as he was _now_ and _not_ who he used to be, as much as it ached of disrespecting Nathan's memory.

Sylar's past was set and it was how he lived from here on out that made the difference, and Peter had only to close his eyes and recall the sensation of Sylar's soul writhing inside his own core to make it all better. His trust in the ex-killer and the bond they had formed over five years of isolation together were enough for Peter to forgive. He'd never forget, but eventually he had realised it was possible to still love Nathan with every inch of his heart _and_ feel affection for Sylar at the same time.

Peter clenched his jaw and called upon the glorious memory of Lydia's ability to fold the pain away until it only throbbed dully beneath the surface. It wasn't comfortable, but it was a small price he had long since learned to pay when it came to his unconventional friendship with his brother's murderer. “All that's behind us now, anyway. Fresh start and all that. Right?” He said gruffly, letting the telltale squeak of the wheel behind him inform him that Sylar was following.

*

“Right.” Sylar concurred, trying and failing not to get swept up in visions of the humiliating argument that had transpired between them. The look on Peter's face... surely it would haunt him forever. “I am sorry, though.”

There was a tense silence, filled only by the constant soundtrack of the damaged wheel, before Peter broke it with a small murmur. “I know.”

Right then, he was reminiscent of the hurt and wounded man who had come down to the wall to make amends with a hastily wrapped version of Pillars of the Earth, and Sylar longed after what could have been instead. What would their last night in the dream have been like if they hadn't argued beforehand? They should have been cheering and laughing when the hammer finally broke unrelenting brick, but instead... well. At least the book had patched things over, even though it _had_ been Sylar's fault in the first place and he didn't feel deserving of such a thoughtful gift. But in the end Peter had still come to the wonderful conclusion of forgiveness, no matter what had come before.

Those arguing brothers again stormed past the end of the aisle, and both Peter and Sylar flinched. Thank god that wasn't them. Sylar felt more grateful than ever that his only friend happened to be the most forgiving person on the planet. Including a planet housing billions of other inhabitants.

As if just to confirm this point, Peter ducked to a shelf and returned with a challenging twitch of an eyebrow and both arms full of some disgusting looking, brightly coloured crystallised sugar in a box. Instantly he was warm and friendly again, changing the subject, a familiar friend that Sylar cherished in the wake of the afterglow of hurt that was still fading from his features. “You'll never know until you give them a try.” Peter chided, impressively managing to balance the boxes atop the mountain already piled up within the cart.

“I'm not eating that.” Sylar wrinkled his nose, stretching across the smaller man to retrieve a single box of his trusted cornflakes instead.

“Y'know what? After a couple of years or so, maybe they'll start to grow on you...”

*

Peter smiled in response to Sylar's disgust and ungraceful lunge to rescue the cart before it bowled a hole through the shelves in a desperate bid for freedom. He chuckled to himself while the other man enacted a failed game of grocery-Tetris as if it was the most important thing in the world that the cart be _neat_ and _organised_. For a moment he actually forgot about everything else that was pushing in on him from all sides, bursting him apart at the seams, and this could have been any other day of the endless ones that stretched out forever behind him... until his overplayed ringtone sounded for the millionth time in less than a day, and instantly his hackles rose again.

Prepared this time, he hissed angrily into the phone. “What part of “leave us alone” don't you understand...?”

“Nice to hear from you too, dear.”

At once Peter's stomach jolted and a surge of childish adoration ran through him. It was the last thing he'd ever imaged he'd feel in this particular circumstance, but to him it had been years after all, and an instinct so natural, so human, was impossible to suppress. “Ma! I'm so sorry, I thought you were... never mind.” He didn't care about her many past sins right then. In that moment, he was only a child and she his mother, who's kiss he'd longed for in empty, lonely nights when the world had been cruel throughout the five, long years of undeserved punishment. And it was as simple as that.

“Someone unwelcome, by the sounds of it.” She said shortly.

“Sorry.” Peter repeated, entirely too happily in light of his mistake. “It's great to hear from you! How are you -”

“ _I'm_ fine. It's _you_ I'm concerned about.” Peter grinned at hearing her voice for the first time in far too long. She sounded brisk, displeased and entirely ready for business. She hadn't changed a bit.

“I'm okay, just laying low right now.”

“The carnival – did Sylar...?”

“Yeah.” Peter glanced across at the man in question, unable to suppress a smile or the pride still surging in his chest when he remembered what Sylar had done last night and how many lives he had saved. He'd made it look so easy. Currently, though, he was still struggling with the groceries and trying not to look like he was listening in to this conversation. “He saved Emma. He saved everyone! Well, Claire and Hiro had something to do with it too, but -” Sylar shied under the attention, and Peter's smile warmed more.

Angela sharply cut him off, and for the first time Peter could hear her TV babbling faintly in the background. “And where is Sylar now?”

He cringed under her tone. Yes, she really _hadn't_ changed. His initial excitement was faltering now the novelty had worn off, and he suddenly remembered that Angela was in league with Noah. That was worrying, but he crooned back gently to convey that everything was alright and she shouldn't get angry. “He's here with me.”

*

Bathed in the early afternoon sun, swathed in multiple silk sheets and embroidered throws in her plush bed, Angela bolted up straighter. Her half finished espresso almost slipped from her fingers as she pressed her telephone harder to her ear. “Peter, please tell me you're not planning on playing best friends with _Sylar_...?” She feared she already knew the response.

Peter answered sincerely, innocently, the way he'd used to while growing up when he tried to worm his way out of getting into trouble. “We're not playing anything.”

So Noah hadn't been exaggerating. After his call she had given her son the benefit of the doubt, but clearly that had just been wishful thinking.

*

“Listen to me very carefully when I say this, Peter: Sylar will only get you into trouble. Yes, he saved Emma, but that does _not_ make him a good person. I already told you – one isolated act does not make that man a saviour! He will only lead you into danger!” There was a steel edge to her voice, ricocheting loudly out Peter's end of the line to where Sylar could likely hear every word.

Peter narrowed his eyes as he listened. He knew she wouldn't understand if he tried to explain about their mind prison or the fact that he felt he hadn't spoken to her for the past five years of his life. Unlike with Noah, raising his voice with Angela Petrelli was a different matter. This needed a different angle. “You have to trust me, okay? Nothing bad's gonna happen with Sylar. It's Claire you should be worrying about.” He lowered his voice in case the name drew unwanted attention from passers-by.

“Of course I'm thinking of my granddaughter. But you are my _son_ , Peter, and I have to think of your safety first.”

Despite what seemed like rare, genuine concern for his well-being, Peter was already growing increasingly irritated by their conversation. Clearly she wasn't going to listen to anything he had to say if it clashed with her opinion. Like talking to a brick wall: arguing with Angela Petrelli was less productive than swinging a sledgehammer at an unbreakable, mental barrier for five years had been. What should he have expected, though? All those days he'd missed her, regretted being so cold towards her – even after all she'd done, because she was his _family_ , and family stuck by one another – seemed stupidly naïve now. Of course he still loved her. But back in the mind prison behind the soft, forgiving lens of distance, it had been a lot easier to forget about the dark stains hidden inside this fateful woman.

Steeling himself for a repeat of that morning, Peter spoke as calmly as possible. “I dunno what Noah told you, and I understand that it's... complicated.” He heavily over-summarised. “It was... difficult for me too, at first. But it's true – Sylar's changed, I swear. He's not gonna hurt me, he's not gonna hurt anyone. Okay, I _trust_ him. And if you won't believe that, then just _respect_ it. Please.” He doubted he had the strength to repeat the entire conversation he'd had with Noah, or to challenge his mother on an issue she felt strongly about. Truthfully, he couldn't really blame her for doubting him and hating Sylar so “soon” after his continued horrific plights, but Peter wasn't about to go down without saying his piece, either.

“How do you expect me to respect a murderous psychopath who just killed my son...? People don't change. Especially not men like _him_.” Angela griped, and Peter felt the old wound of Nathan tear open painfully for the second time in five minutes. Of course, for Angela, her son had died weeks ago. But for Peter it had been years since he'd last seen his loved and lost big brother.

He let his eyes once again travel across to where Sylar was still avidly trying not to look like he was eavesdropping. The echo of the man's soul, his hopes, dreams, secrets and insecurities still lingered within Peter, tugging at his empathy. And he knew for sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his mother was wrong.

*

Sylar was forced to admit that he'd well and truly re-arranged the contents of the cart as much as he could. Normally, he'd have started in on a carton of that honeycomb ice cream right about now, but seeing as he recalled that was most likely frowned upon in this world, instead he just patiently waited while pretending to be examining the items on the shelf beside him. Spoons... fascinating. Really though, his stomach was housing an army of butterflies and his heart was beating loudly in his chest. It was almost how Sylar would have imagined it felt to be invisible and hear what people said about you, but better because Peter wasn't confiding this in the freedom of privacy. He was being this reliable beside him on purpose. Sylar didn't look forward to all the closed doors he would come up against in his new life, but he could definitely get used to having someone fight in his corner!

In a little gesture of goodwill, he smiled to himself as he made one last arrangement to his meticulous packing. He rotated two cereals around so that his own would get home squashed at the corner, and Peter's many boxes of diabetes could remain intact.

A familiar, stocky gait approach at his back, then Peter appeared beside him, standing so close that the little man's shoulder brushed Sylar's arm. Sylar was grateful for the contact, and knew that Peter had merely needed the closeness, too.

“I'm not gonna argue with you, Ma.” He said clearly. “I'm telling you: he's not dangerous anymore. You saw yourself in the dream: he's a _hero_."

Quite possibly glowing scarlet, Sylar turned his face away as Peter continued to defend him so spectacularly, hoping the little man wouldn't see the delighted grin slapped over his features. He allowed this brazen appreciation to tickle the tender spots of his ego, then accidentally locked eyes with a workman standing over a shopping cart nearby.

Oh.

He'd know that look anywhere, could practically smell it in the air... fear. Shit! It was blatantly obvious by the way the guy was staring that they had already been discovered on their very first morning of normalcy. But how...? Then Sylar tuned into the full picture: the man's newspaper sitting atop an eight-pack of beers; the way Peter was rather obviously expressing the words “dangerous”and “hurt” in reference to him; and the way the workman's wide eyes continued to swivel between Sylar and Claire's glossy portrait on the front page as he pieced the puzzle together.

Killer instincts flared to life within Sylar, and he knew from experience that the workman was seconds away from either screaming for help or flat-out running away. He knew he ought to do something, but instead just stood stupidly and watched it happen, knowing his amateur reaction was pathetically giving him away even more. Torn between laughing it off or just quickly disposing of the problem the old fashioned way, he was caught between indecision. All it would take was _one_ little twitch of a finger to make this issue disappear... but he wasn't that person anymore.

Thinking fast, Sylar's intelligent mind went to work trying to fix the situation through a different method, but before he could even _do_ or _think_ anything useful, it was too late. The workman looked around nervously, jabbed a hand accusingly at Sylar... and then the very same packet of spoons Sylar had been admiring earlier silently whizzed past his shoulder all by themselves, only to be caught in the workman's outstretched hand.

A second of shock. That man – he had – him _too_...?

A bubbling concoction of relief, surprise and a silent connection with this man warmed Sylar from within. The smile he gave came to him easily, and the one received in reply genuinely touched him. They shared a mutual moment of secret understanding before the workman nodded, spared a curious glance at Peter, and then clunked on his way leaving nothing but a trail of dusty footprints behind him.

Okay... Sylar had to admit that maybe Claire's glory-hounding “stunt” had done at least one thing worthwhile in growing everyone's awareness of people with abilities – that included others like themselves. Never had he imagined he'd bump into someone with a power in the _store_ of all places! But it was a nice surprise, a fun experience, and one he would have to fill the oblivious empath in on later.

*

Refusing to rise to the bait this time, Peter allowed his mother to end yet another disapproving lecture before hastily changing the subject. “Did you call just to tell me off, Ma?” Today, he doubted it, although that wasn't an uncommon occurrence.

*

“No.” Back in her bedroom, Angela sniffed and briskly re-arranged the covers over her midriff. She caught a glimpse of the TV screen playing the now iconic clip of a Ferris wheel and a blond figure plummeting from the top again, before she cast her eyes away, ironing out a crease in the sheets with her fingers. “I've been trying to sleep. To _dream_. But, rather understandably, I've been unable to relax.”

“So... you don't know what's gonna happen?” She could hear the disappointment in her son's voice. He was looking to her for guidance, trust, a novelty she knew she didn't deserve after all she'd put him through, but would cherish all the same. Unfortunately, this time she couldn't grant him what he craved.

“I wanted to warn you to be careful.” Angela's voice was clipped, successfully suppressing the fear she felt roiling inside. “Watch what... company you keep. We don't know who to trust yet, so I suggest you be wary of everyone. Look after yourself, Peter.” It was a pointless thing to say, for when had Peter ever looked after himself? But he was her only remaining child, her baby, and all the humanity she had left in this world. She would never, ever just lay down and do nothing if she was in danger of losing him... “And for goodness sake try to be sensible.” She added, barely holding back the 'for once' at the end.

*

Peter breathed out a little huff that tickled Sylar's collar due to their continued proximity. He continued to wait as an outsider on this conversation between mother and son, and happily just watched Peter's face as he enthused his point, awash with so many emotions, as ever.

“It's alright, Ma, you don't have to worry about the future! We... uh, _I'm_ going back to fix it. Once I get a hold of Hiro, I'll stop Claire from ever jumping -”

“No! You mustn't.” Angela's voice was clear now that the phone was so close, and Sylar gave up his pretence for good and just listened in this time.

“Wh... why not?” Large, worried eyes turned to Sylar then, and so he gifted a little encouraging smile Peter's way, returned only by the empath's arm pressing harder against his.

*

The feeble plan Peter had been clinging too all morning slid from his slack grip, and he listened to his mother crush his only hope with a heavy heart. “Because out of every foreseeable future I've seen, every time abilities have been revealed to the public, _this_ is the best case scenario. Going back might jeopardise everything and make it all so much worse.”

“So I'm supposed to just sit here and do nothing?”

“Yes.” She stated matter of factly. “Until the dust settles and we find out where we stand.”

“But what about last time? With Dad? After what we went through to stop all this from happening...?!” Even to his own ears Peter sounded desperate and incapable, pleading for help from the woman who wasn't about to give it. He was suddenly uncomfortably aware of all the subtle connections between that lost future and the way this present seemed to be unfolding... his stomach twisted even thinking back to Sylar helping that boy with the marshmallows. Okay, it was just some random kid and not Sylar's son, but the similarity between the two versions of the man wasn't lost on Peter.

“The future is fragile, always has been, always will be. If just one thread in the tapestry breaks, the entire design is changed forever. This isn't the timeline your father nurtured, and all we can do is hope it stays that way. Just promise me you won't push this, Peter. It's much too dangerous.”

Giving in was something Peter had never been good at. He chose a path and stuck to it, ran the full length of the thing even when the bridge collapsed or the paving stones threw him up and over mountains. No matter the struggle, he would fight until the bitter end. This time, it wasn't just about him, or what he wanted. This was literally the fate of the entire world he was playing with, and unlike his niece, Peter would ensure to think of everyone his actions could possibly affect before putting his own desires before everyone else's.

“...Okay.” He agreed reluctantly, practically feeling the surprise bounce off Sylar at his side.

The stunned silence on his mother's end of the phone was more poignant than vocal surprise could have been, and Peter hated his forced predicament even more. “Thank you. Keep in touch, dear.”

Having gotten what she wanted, Angela was now readying to leave. A part of Peter longed to keep her on the phone just to hear her voice for a little longer, no matter the words she was saying, but the other part knew better. “Catch you later.” He said quietly, hanging up feeling like he'd just ran a marathon and finished last.

*

“You're actually going to do what she said?” Sylar asked dubiously. He didn't think he'd seen Peter relent before, ever. It was extremely surprising that it was on such an important problem that Peter was so adamant about correcting.

“I don't really have a choice, do I?” The little man sighed, defeated, and lifted one corner of his mouth in a valiant attempt at a smile.

“You think she's right?”

“Well, she knows more than any of us.” Conflicting morals and trust battled away behind wounded, hazel eyes. “I mean, yeah, of course I wanna fix it! But even if I could find Hiro... she's right. It's too dangerous if we get this wrong.”

“But what if she's lying? I seem to remember she _has_ been known to dabble in deception now and then...”

“What if she's not? Yeah, she's lied, she's hurt people, she's done bad things. But she's not the only one.” There was a brief, awkward pause. “And she _has_ helped to save the world more than once, Sylar.”

The look on the guy's face right then had to be most similar to a time in his childhood when Peter and Nathan had asked their mother for new bikes one Christmas. Of course Nathan had hoped, but he'd also known they'd be lucky to get a family heirloom from some stuffy uncle or other that wasn't locked away until they were “responsible enough” to even see them, let alone something actually _fun_. But Peter... of course, little Pete had been adamant right until he'd opened every last gift, and searched every last closet in the house for any stowaways, that Angela hadn't been lying when she'd promised them the bikes.

Sylar knew that Peter had missed his mother over his prison sentence, and that he was already preparing to forgive her every misdeed out of love alone. But while Sylar had changed and wanted to look at the world past the jaded eyes that had haunted him for years... it hadn't made him stupid. “She also conspired to blow up New York City. And her own son.” He said pointedly.

He watched as Peter's expression fell, the exact same way it had that bike-less Christmas day long ago. “I just wish there was a way to make sure, y'know?” He shrugged, trying to play it off as no big deal, but Sylar could see how much it was hurting him. Through re-lived glimpses from within the other man's soul last night, it wasn't difficult to imagine the frustration and guilt he must be feeling, how trapped and useless with no discernible escape from the cage of hopelessness that had woven itself around him.

Then a sudden inspiration hit. “Well then, aren't you lucky you're friends with a pre-cog...?”

*

Sylar almost sang the words, chirpily dragging the dead weight of the cart to the stationary aisle. Peter followed obediently, questioningly, and after a few seconds of bustling around in a shelf, Sylar's voice floated back towards him.

“And aren't _we_ lucky that _you_ happen to be...” Then he wheeled around, two new sketchbooks and a packet of pencils in his hands. He lowered his voice. “An empath? That way we can work twice as quickly.” He loosely slapped down the new items atop the heavy cart and lifted his eyebrows to encourage the brilliance of his new idea.

Peter bit his lip in thought, catching the paper before it slid off the pile. He flicked his eyes back up to meet Sylar's, speaking aloud as he caught up. “We're gonna paint the future?” He liked that idea. It seemed a lot more reliable than trusting his secretive mother or just sitting around waiting for the world to end. At least this way, they'd see for themselves. He let Sylar's plan fully process, feeling hope begin to seep into him comfortingly.

“Technically we're going to _draw_ the future. Afraid they're all out of canvas and oils.”

Peter ran a hand thoughtfully over the sketchbooks. “Is this from Matt?” He asked of the ability, joining the dots on an old conversation that had come up a few times during their many long days spent behind that damn brick wall.

*

“I haven't tried it yet, but it's not much different from that artist's ability. What was his name again? Ian?”

“Isaac.” Peter corrected, recalling the name with a visible guilt that ran parallel within Sylar. “Isaac Mendez.”

“Right.” Sylar cringed, thinking that he should have perhaps been more thoughtful before addressing one of his victims so carelessly. “I guess we should be grateful that Matt managed to bullshit himself this ability from the planes of Africa, hm?” He chuckled. “Shame it wasn't his _telepathy_ that rubbed off on me instead...” That was still a tender bruise. The reminder that he had lived out weeks of his life packed away inside Matt Parkman's head was not one likely to bring up thoughts of unicorns and rainbows. However, at least one good token had come out of that torture, and while Sylar would have much preferred telepathy to pre-cognitive painting, he wasn't going to complain too much about it.

Peter blew out a deep breath, making up his mind. His puffed cheeks slowly hollowed again as a transformation overcame him and a determined smile drew up the working corner of his lips. Seeming to glow with static electricity, he stepped up to Sylar so close their chests almost touched, so close that Sylar could practically _taste_ the anticipation rolling off him.

Sylar raised an eyebrow, fighting back a self-satisfied grin at his genius. The empath blindly reached around behind Sylar, and when he retracted his hand it was laden with a couple more pads of paper, just in case. Then he nodded, a tiny asserted motion, and matched the excited glint in Sylar's eyes with one of his own.

“Okay. Let's get to work.”

Rejuvenated, this time the pair barely noticed all the news reports and articles and phony pictures of Claire Bennet The Idol as they passed. Instead they had a plan to keep themselves busy, or at least a general direction to head in for now. Sylar praised himself and his grand idea, his triumph in cheering up his friend, and their success in surviving their first trip out in a crowded place without getting into any kind of trouble at all.

Together they pushed their supplies towards the exit, buzzing with purpose: their eyes bright, their arms touching, the squeaky cart bulging – before remembering at the last second that they still needed to pay for things in the real world...

 

***

 

Nerves fluttered inside as Peter retracted his hand from Sylar's forearm. The borrowed ability shivered as it spread into his skin, settling snugly and within easy reach. Even though he hadn't possessed it for years now, the prescient power was familiar and reminded Peter of way back at the very beginning of it all, the first time he had painted the future by completing a prophetic painting of – who else? - the very man currently sprawled out on the worn and beaten rug beside him.

The floorboards were hard and uncomfortable, but as Sylar's table was far too small to house the many blank sheets of paper they might need, Peter had insisted that the floor was the next best surface. Currently, he was lying on his stomach, all his empty pages splayed out before him to make things easier later for his trance-inflicted self. Meanwhile Sylar, in contrast, shuffled upright with his legs folded and had neatly stacked his paper into a tidy pile to the side.

*

Pencils poised above the paper, the two men glanced at each other for one last, shared confirmation. “You ready?” Peter asked, his voice a little croaky.

“Yep.” Sylar dipped his head in an exaggerated nod and clicked his fingers towards the paper in a 'what are we waiting for!' manner. It was an attempt to maintain the rush of excitement he'd felt while they'd been setting up, but really though, the thought had only now properly occurred to him: they were going to _see the future_. And it might not only entail the truth about abilities. There was a little hesitation on Sylar's part, the tiniest fragment of doubt that was slicing into him like a steel splinter... he might not like what he saw of his future. What if it didn't pan out the way he hoped...? What if he... reverted?

It was too late to back out now, though, and the fate of the world was possibly counting on this. Not to mention his friend's sanity. So he prioritised his feelings the way he had perfected over his many lifetimes, and pushed those thoughts as deep into the recesses of his deft mind as they would go. Then lowered his pencil to the paper.

Before it could make its mark however, another warm hand touched the pencil, stopping it, in order to prevent the ability from taking hold.

*

Peter craned his neck to get a proper look at Sylar's face. His questing gaze was met with another bright grin, and his suspicions were instantly confirmed. Peter could feel Sylar's hand shaking a little where their skin brushed, and could read the uncertainty swirling in the depths of his dark eyes. The empath's conscience ached, and he could practically still taste the pain eroding inside this man's heart.

“Hey, no matter what we see, no matter what we draw... I believe that whatever the world holds for people like us, you have a good place within it. You've done so well already, Sylar.” He readjusting his hold from the pencil to his friend's hand, squeezing just slightly with his fingertips. “You're only gonna do better. Alright?”

This time the smile that played on Sylar's lips was genuine. Small. Grateful. “Thank you.” He said simply, but Peter could tell the worry was still coiled around the man like chains.

He lifted his hold on Sylar's hand and let out a dry chuckle to ease the tension furling in the air. “Besides, the future can be changed, if you want it to be. The tapestry isn't set in stone... or... whatever it was my mom said.” He screwed up his face in thought, wishing just then that he had inherited a natural talent with words, like every other member of his family had done. “Just... don't worry. I have faith in you.” He added quietly with a reassuring nudge of his elbow to Sylar's knee, and a proud smile that was mostly in his eyes.

Sylar's grand eyebrow slid slowly up his forehead and his lips turned up at one corner. “Trust me, Peter. I didn't go through eight years of redemption in order to throw it all away the moment we get back here.” He sounded confident, even if most of it was bravado. With a returned, playful push to Peter's shoulder, the former killer closed his eyelids and turned his attention back to his paper, took a deep breath, and opened opaque, glassy eyes to his first blank canvas.

Peter watched the ability take hold of his companion, feeling chills run through him by association. It was just as eerie to watch now as it had been the last time he'd watched someone do this. He squirmed on the thin rug, trying and failing to get as comfortable as possible, before following Sylar's lead, closing his eyes and allowing the tantalising fingers of prophecy to lure him under the depths of his subconscious...

*

Pencils scoured across paper for indiscernible minutes: slow, steady, swooping strokes spiralling into frantic, fevered, frenzied scribbles. The two artists worked side by side until the shadows had shifted clean across the room and the sleepy, winter sun had rolled itself up in stars and clouds for another long night of slumber. The day had slipped away into evening by the time the pencils slowed and human sound broke into the apartment for the first time in hours.

The first thing Sylar was aware of when he came to was pain. He grunted and couldn't stop an embarrassing cry ripping from him when his entire body burned and locked in place. Fuck – this was why he'd wanted to sit at the table and not the floor! While he waited for the cramp to disintegrate every muscle in his body, Sylar took the time to look around himself. The room was thick with darkness, the air thin and cold, and the streetlamp outside the blinds cast severe strips of orange across Sylar's new paper carpet.

His heart leapt into his throat at the sight: scrawls, scratches and doodles spread out over an immense blanket of pages surrounding himself and the dark figure of Peter, still drawing, at his side. The unknown lure of destiny was terrifying and he couldn't tear his eyes away although he didn't even want to look. Thankfully it was too dark to make out the images clearly, but from what Sylar could see already, there was a _lot_ of future to come.

Then he suddenly noticed he was holding one of the drawings, presumably the one he had just completed. He could discern a dark human figure in the middle of the page, but nothing more. At once his first thought was to wake Peter so they could look over everything together. But then a small voice piped up in his head, making him hesitate. Maybe he had roused first for a reason? To be the first to see any possibly incriminating prophecies and have this little window of opportunity to do with them as he pleased?

He was over 90% sure that his future wasn't going to be one bloody and destructive enough to rival his past... but that small, venomous notion, doubt, was impossible to ignore. He couldn't shake it away, no matter how strong his motivations to be better were. Fear was the strongest flavour running throughout the waterfall of his emotions, loudest spoken and so much easier to hear than the quiet certainty of hope, as was the unfair nature of insecurity. He _wanted_ to be good. He _wanted_ to be a hero from now on. But Sylar had long ago learned the distinction between what he wanted and what actually happened in life. It wasn't a nice thought, but it anchored its claws into him all the same.

Telling himself that he wouldn't dispose of any such artefact anyway if one were to arise (really, he was just scoping the perimeter...), he lifted his newest masterpiece into a beam of the streetlight, his hand shaking slightly, to see... not himself.

A betraying sigh slipped past his lips before he could contain it, and he basked in the fuzziness of relief dabbing the perspiration from his temple. Sure, this was only one picture – one of many – but the absence of his own face on the page was enough to recollect Sylar's scattered confidence. He squinted in the poor light, trying to recognise his subject depicted in the abstract, caricatured style. A man. Tall, imposing, black... Rene. Reflected a hundred times over in a mirror. The man was hardly the most harmless person to be haunting the future, but he didn't seem to be doing anything too dangerous, in any case. Besides, even The Haitian was a more welcome sight than a once-again-murderous version of himself.

This time Sylar did wake Peter, leaning over on complaining joints to gently shake the man's shoulder.

*

“Peter?”

The voice lassoed him like a cord around the waist, drawing him out of the rush of visions and dreams and back into his body where he still lay on the cold, dark space of Sylar's floor. “Wh...? What's...?” Peter mumbled groggily, regaining his senses. Then his voice was rushed out of him in a choked gasp when vicious pain bolted through his spine, elbows and neck.

He heard the chuckle beside him in the blackness, and knew even without seeing the other man's face that it was twisted into a self-satisfied, 'told you so' smirk. Sylar sat silently beside him in the dark until Peter's eyes adjusted and he managed to push his aching body into some semblance of a sitting position.

“How long were we out?” He grunted, stretching his neck from side to side and agreeing internally that Sylar had been right when he'd suggested the table for this exercise.

“Hours, I presume.”

There was a slight lilt to Sylar's tone, and all at once Peter was whacked in the gut when he remembered what they'd just done. As he apprehensively scanned the ground around him, Sylar creaked to his knees and waded to the nearby lamp, bathing the room in a soft, golden glow.

Blinking in the light, the pair wordlessly went about sifting through each and every picture from the pile. Most of them were similar: Peter and Sylar, they assumed, standing together against a variety of backdrops and scenarios. They were decidedly... tame. The occasional ability was visible here and there: electricity, fire, flight, but nothing world-ending as far as Peter could see. His shoulders relaxed millimetre by millimetre as he poured over the map of the future, and felt Sylar's do so too. But it was far from over.

His blood continued to pound in his ears every time he moved onto each new page, absolutely certain that _this_ one would depict the entire planet cracking in two... but none did. Instead he was greeted by odd, jumbled sketches that didn't make much sense out of context, as the future rarely did, unfortunately. Claire was there, more than once. So was Noah. Matt Parkman, Angela and Rene cropped up consistently, along with some unfamiliar sights: a tall woman who Peter didn't recognise, wearing a bun and strict business suit; a deserted beach that stretched out far into the horizon; some sort of structure in the middle of the ocean; a girl surrounded by beautiful flowers and butterflies; two bright stars side by side in the sky; an old woman with long, grey hair; a crowd of people atop a cliff, lit by the setting sun; and, amongst it all, numerous logos, banners and posters that all featured the same, foreign word.

“That word keeps coming up... “Evo”? What's that? What's Evo?” Peter asked, narrowing his eyes to ensure he read it correctly.

“I don't know.” Sylar mumbled, rifling again through the pages. “But whatever it is, things don't look very apocalyptic to me...” He slid over one of Peter's own drawings, showing a busy street with people showcasing their abilities, yet still co-existing peacefully in what looked like safe, normal lives within the rest of the population. “It seems like things are going to be... okay.”

Sylar looked down at Peter with hopeful eyes and the empath finally felt himself start to give in to the truth that was literally spelled out before him. He let a smile possess him, relieved, exhausted and very nearly giddy. “Yeah.” He nodded, catching the delighted glint to the other man's smile and recalling the pointed lack of any exposed brains, blood or violence in the drawings surrounding him. He wouldn't have been able to stop the pride from seeping into his features even if he'd wanted to. “Yeah, looks like it.”

*

No end of the world, no apparent kidnapping and restraining of specials, everyone actually living in _harmony_... it all seemed too good to be true. Sylar tried not to include his healthy, killing-free future in that bracket – that part, he was more than willing to accept as it was. But as for everything else... maybe it really would work out well? The painter _Isaac's_ paintings had all come true, he remembered. So had the one Sylar himself had painted of his showdown with Peter in Kirby Plaza. So what that Sylar had never become president, as his other painting had foretold? He had come incredibly close after all, and for all he knew maybe that was what he'd painted all that time before?

It really _did_ seem too good to be true, and it was only natural to be a little wary... but for Peter's sake he hid any shadow of hesitation from the outside. “So are you satisfied?” He asked fondly, knowing that even as Peter himself had procured physical evidence to believe, he still wasn't going to give up on his original plan easily.

The little man rubbed at his stiff shoulders, his eyes continuing to roam over the predicted timeline while he chewed his lower lip rather harshly. The flushed, damaged flesh slid free from his teeth at the same time the trepidation flowed out of his body. He twitched his head – possibly a nod of assent – but never vocally expressed it.

*

He supposed he really should wait and let things play out for the meantime. His mother's warning echoed in his head, and he wished he could truly believe that the world was going to work out perfectly, the way he had used to dream for with his entire heart. She'd said this was the best outcome she had ever seen. Was it really possible they might just have stumbled down the easy path for once?

In response to Sylar's question: no. No, he wasn't satisfied. But he didn't really have a better option.

“So what happens now?” Peter asked, feeling his heart chip around the edges when the realisation sunk in. There was no longer a mission to conform to, no mind prison, no empty apartment across the hall from this one for him to inhabit... and no excuse for two grown men to spend every waking moment together now that they were back in the real world. Already, Peter dreaded the thought of going back to his old, lonely apartment, but he would never invite himself to stay at Sylar's home.

He knew he had to go tonight, or he probably never would. But he didn't want to leave Sylar. In fact, he was pretty sure he'd forgotten how to live without him.

*

“We do what we've been fighting to do for years, Peter.” Sylar enthused, cocking his head slightly to watch the simple truth hit his friend for the first time. “We _live_.” He grinned. Peter's astounded expression didn't disappoint. “I'll bet the world will always be in need of its best, super-powered paramedic. World peace or not.”

Said sort-of-former paramedic cringed slightly under the praise, trailing his fingers shyly through his hair. “And watches are breaking every day, right?” The pair smiled together, unable to really process that the moment they had talked about non-stop for their shared eternity was now upon them at last.

It was bizarre. More bizarre than saving Emma and therefore a whole carnival of super-humans had been. But it was amazing in its potential. Sylar hadn't really had a solid plan for life beyond the wall – honestly, it had only been in the later years that he had even come around to Peter's insisting that there even _was_ a “beyond” – but he knew where he was going to settle down, all the same. At least temporarily, which was the only condition that made it okay in the first place. Ironically, the normalcy of the job that he'd used to detest was now it's greatest appeal. It would provide a low key, quiet place where Sylar could stay out the way of the entire Claire fiasco. And of everyone else, until things died down.

Both men's smiles ran their course, and Sylar busied himself by gathering all the sheets of paper so he wouldn't do something incredibly selfish like ask Peter to stay. He was well aware of the man's closeness at his back, of his familiar scent and natural place within this apartment, within Sylar's life. He was also aware of those kind eyes burning into him, and the guy's reluctance to do what they both knew he had to.

It wasn't returning to his old watchmaker's shop that terrified Sylar about moving on with his life. It was the knowledge that Peter was going to leave him. It wasn't forever (he carefully, gratefully, collected the many depictions of himself and this man side by side in the predicted time to come), but after going so many years surviving around the sounds and presence of this other human being – fearing every time he lost sight of the guy that he'd never see him again – actually letting him walk away tonight was a torture Sylar didn't want to endure. He would never hold him back, though. Not anymore.

Demanding that Peter not abandon him would only trap them together once again, for he knew Peter would stay if Sylar were to so much as whisper it. But if they didn't quickly sever the knot that was binding them together so closely, they would never be able to survive the amputation once the wound had grown deeper. They had to learn to stand on their own two feet again, not to shy away from the independence they had both individually excelled at perfectly well for thirty years thank you very much, before a certain telepathic cop and his heavy-handed ability had changed everything. It was slightly humiliating for Sylar to admit to himself that he couldn't even remember how he had used to survive by himself, back in the day. For he was no longer the lone ranger he used to be, the sole hunter, the lonely predator above all other specimen that had needed no one and nothing but his power. Now, as cringeworthy as it was to think it, he was but one half of a whole.

Peter was so good to him... better than Sylar could have ever hoped for, better than he knew he deserved. At the very most, he would have been grateful to be merely tolerated after what he'd done in the past, let alone _forgiven_ , or even _liked_! It was only out of sheer selfishness that Sylar didn't turn Peter away for his own good and the memories of every single soul he had ripped from this earth. Their murderer didn't deserve to receive such kindness. However, not everyone was as self-sacrificing as Sylar's merciful friend, and he knew there was no way he'd ever be brave enough to turn away for good from the only thing keeping him strong. Luckily, judging by the prophesies literally within his grasp, he wouldn't have to.

He wanted Peter to have the freedom he had resiliently fought after for so long with that titanium resolve and almost as strong sledgehammer, more than he wanted to keep him within his eyesight. Well, okay, definitely not more, but he knew it was the better thing to do, and in order for them both to grow and evolve, he would stubbornly refuse to be the shackle around his companion's ankle.

Instead of just flat-out locking said companion in here with him, Sylar just bit his tongue and dived into the task at hand, stretching ever so slightly too far to reach the furthest pages rather than distance himself even an inch more from Peter.

“Here... budge up.” The words were spoken quietly, then paper crinkled as Peter crawled over to help with the task, stopping a little too close for them to actually have an optimum range of arm movement for tidying. It was hardly a job for two people (already Sylar knew that Peter was going to ruin his system) but it wasn't the mess of paper that he was really helping with, anyway.

As the duo worked silently in a content routine, Sylar's eye caught yet another portrayal of himself and this other man beside him, immortalised on paper. Together they stood proud, united, despite Noah Bennet and Angela Petrelli's earlier attempts to “rescue” Peter from his evil clutches. No matter how much it stung to receive their scathing remarks or to hear them trying to corrupt Peter's relationship with him, it seemed that, for once, Sylar was going to come out the better in this situation.

The empath's elbow knocked his briefly as he scoured the floor, simply _helping_ Sylar with a chore so minimal, here on his hands and knees beside him while they rocked together on the precipice of their shared future. It didn't matter that much to Sylar if that future was to unravel within the boring, unspectacular walls of a shop or hospital, as long as he had one at all! One with a friend... with Peter. He smiled.

*

Nothing had changed since he'd been here last, yet Peter knew he'd lived another life in that time. His old apartment was dark and lonely, a hollow, empty shell for the hollow, empty man he'd been when he had left this very room only yesterday... technically. The air smelled familiar, felt clean and rich to breathe... but it was all wrong. It _should_ have been musky and stale, and dust _should_ have been cloaked over every untouched, forgotten surface. Instead, the place was far too perfect, too quiet, to step back into after moving out what felt like over two years ago.

Of course, the _city_ wasn't quiet, but the blatant absence of another, familiar gait shuffling around nearby or across the hall wrapped around Peter almost claustrophobically. For the first, true time since breaking free of Parkman's mind prison he felt _very_ small. And _very_ alone.

Peter closed his eyes and leaned his weight against the door, shutting it solidly behind him and taking a long, tired breath. He dropped the bags holding his half of that morning's shopping trip, deciding to put it away later, and rubbed his hands over his tired, stubbled face in an attempt to chase away the discomfort facing the city alone had imposed on him. Hopefully he just needed a few days to fall back into his old ways. Hopefully it wouldn't take too long to get to grips with being further away from Sylar than he had been in years. He sighed, opened his eyes and pushed himself off the door, making his way through the vacant space that was supposed to be his home.

Never one to have been afraid of the dark, Peter had never before bothered with shadowed corners or hidden insets in his life. Yet tonight he caught himself moving silently through the apartment and peeking behind doors, just in case. This world was inhabited after all, and the living posed a much greater threat than the non-existent, he'd come to realise.

After securing the entire apartment, he shouldered his way through the double glass doors to his bedroom and dropped down heavily on the edge of his bed, resting his pounding head in his hand. Last night's pathetic attempt at sleep was really taking its toll, and Peter had to physically force his eyes to stay open. He was slipping, but it felt like cheating to give in and drop off for the night while he still hadn't done _anything_ useful in the wake of Claire's decision. The mattress was firm and spongy, most definitely a lot more comfortable than last night's sleeping arrangements, that was for sure! Yet somehow the thought of Sylar's creaky couch was a much more inviting prospect than sleeping in his old bed for the first time in far too long.

So this was it, then. This was how it was going to be, now. It seemed he had been thrust head-first back into a life he'd forgotten, stumbling to catch his footing and left to figure everything out the hard way. While the thought of once again being able to save people every day was an uplifting one, he feared he couldn't remember the routine of his job. One that didn't involve sledgehammers and a brick wall, anyway. Like going back after a five year leave of absence, the prospect was daunting, terrifying, and overwhelming. The world would just expect him to slot perfectly back into a mould he'd outgrown – he couldn't tell anyone why he was out of sync with the flow of emergency, why he was so jumpy at the loud sirens, or why he'd suddenly forgotten how to drive the ambulance... nobody would understand. Nobody would know what he'd been through since they'd last met.

His sleepy fingers found their way into his pocket of their own accord, and before he even really noticed what he was doing: Sylar's recently added contact was up on the screen of his phone, his thumb hovering a hair's breadth from calling. It wasn't too pathetic, right? To let Sylar know he got home safe? To see how he was doing all the way over there by himself? Even just to hear his voice..?

With another deep huff of breath, Peter chucked the phone carelessly onto the mattress beside him before flopping back on it himself and rubbing both hands over his face again. Flying to Los Angeles, being trapped in a mind prison for five years, flying back across the country to New York, battling a deranged terrakinetic man, reading every letter of the script of someone else's soul, shopping in a busy store for the first time in years and drawing the future all day was combining into one hell of a weight on Peter's shoulders. His spine, neck and arms felt tense and rock solid after lying in the same position on that stupid, thin rug for so long, and not for the second time since waking he regretted turning down Sylar's advice on posture-aiding arrangements before jumping straight into a drawing marathon the way he had done.

The future... all the drawings blurred past Peter's hazy vision like an old film reel. He cracked his eyes open and reached a heavy arm for his phone once more. He scrolled through his contacts again, not for Sylar, but once again for the only person who could fix things before they unravelled too far. ...He wondered if this call would finally be the time that Hiro would answer. Probably. Peter hesitated, conflicted, caught by the salvation of the world literally at his fingertips.

The pain firing through his limbs was a stark reminder of his afternoon and evening's venture, as were the memories of sketches that he wouldn't be able to block out if he tried. There was no arguing that the future _did_ look decidedly promising, but still Peter was reluctant to drop all hold on his part to play in fixing everything. All it would take was one tap of a button and his choice would be made for him. If Hiro answered _now_ , after every other attempt at contact had failed, surely it was a sign...? Destiny...? And if not, then at least Peter had tried, which was saying more than simply rolling over and playing dead, turning a blind eye and pretending to live his old life as if nothing had changed...

Long seconds ticked past while Peter blinked weary, aching, scratchy eyes at the too bright screen of his phone, mulling it all over. Hiro... Hiro... the four letters swam in and out of focus as exhaustion threatened to claim him at last, but still Peter refused to allow it until he had made his mind up. His heart was telling him to call and save the world before it even got hurt in the first place, just to be safe. But his head, the lesser-acknowledged part of him, was putting up a good fight for once.

Releasing a trembling breath, Peter's eyes slid closed and he dropped his phone to the mattress once more, without ever forcing destiny's hand. In the end, wasn't it better to trust Isaac's foresight in accordance with Angela's advice? To trust Claire's decision, and Hiro's absence, and Sylar's reassuring words...? All he could do was hope so.

Giving in for real this time, it took no time at all until Peter fell sound asleep where he lay shivering: all alone in his dark, empty apartment, curled up on top of his old duvet fully dressed without even having managed to unlace his boots.

 

***

 

The tide was calm for a while. A brief, wondrous reprieve where everything was smooth and calm and tranquil... then something changed. There was a chink in the chain, a man-made ripple in the river of time, a thread was unravelled. A butterfly's wings were crushed underfoot. And the future re-wrote itself.

Destruction. Death. Disaster. The only things left on this charred husk of a world.

Oceans bled onto the land, crashing over homes and families with no remorse, no mercy. Hundreds of innocents were blasted apart by heat as the iron tower fumed and fell around them, spilling its lifeblood and suffocating its victims with smoke. Children cried as they were ripped from the face of the earth along with their classmates, in a place where they should have been safe. A conjoined, white-hot blast illuminated a city, wiping out millions of souls and baring the raw flesh of the planet. Flames rained from the sky as bodies disintegrated to ashes, the sun itself sent out tongues of fire to lick the surface of the Earth clean. Air was drained from existence along with every last sound, the planet now rendered just one endless stretch of blackness, lit only by the ravenous, red embers that consumed every last trickle of life left behind...

And then there was nothing. Nothing but two silhouettes almost invisible against the darkness. She knew instantly who they were without even having to look, but her eyes were held open against her will and there was no escape: the dreadful sight of these two immortal men left alone, the only inhabitants of a deserted planet that she had just watched them destroy. Together.

A tortured scream ripped from Angela Petrelli's throat as she woke, a sound unrecognisable from this woman who never showed weakness. But currently she was shaking, trembling, reliving the dream in nauseating waves over and over, clenching her manicured talons so tightly into her silk sheets that they threatened to tear clean through.

The charcoal walls of her heart cracked deeply enough to stab the core within, and for a moment this powerful woman felt tiny, helpless, overwhelmed by the curse she bore and the truth her vision had just bestowed upon her tired mind. But only for a moment. For as the smoke cleared she knew what she had to do to prevent her dream coming true. The right decisions were always the most difficult, but it wouldn't be the first time she would have to make a sacrifice for the greater good of mankind.

It would hurt, yes, but she had no choice. The entire world was at stake. And she wasn't going to let it die.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, that was a long chapter - just as well I cut it in two! (The last chapter and this were originally supposed to be one, but omg it got far too long!) I know I always say it, but I truly mean it every single time: thank you so much for reading! It's annoying me how long it's taking between chapters, but I am trying my best ^.^ I want to get the next one up quite soon, so please keep checking back for updates :)
> 
> Also, regarding Sylar's painting the future ability: I figured that if Matt could "bullsh*t himself a new ability" after eating some animal dung and doing a little chant, that Sylar coming away with a souvenir from Matt's mind isn't that far fetched :P Looking at the brain to see how an ability works is how he gets them after all, and just because we didn't see him use it in the few episodes after Sylar left Matt's mind doesn't mean he didn't have it... X)


	6. The First Thread

The corridors were filled with the quiet hubbub of an early-afternoon lull, a grateful reprieve from the ruckus of the busy morning. Here at reception it was possible to take a breather for the first time all day, and Peter allowed the gentle hum of life around him to unwind the tension that had been knotting throughout his body for hours now.

It hadn't been too bad this morning, really. Dealing with the wounded, drunken leftovers from an all nighter bar-brawl had been a bit of a challenge, but aside from that he had been almost as competent and proficient as back in the old days. Which of course meant he had over exerted himself constantly since his shift had began, but the stress was worth it in order to feel a sense of satisfaction that he was actually managing to be helpful today.

The place smelled as always of medical sterilisation, cheap coffee and the telltale concoction of too many different meals combined into a distinct, blended cocktail that positively screamed _hospital food_. Peter was still re-adjusting to the stomach churning aroma that he had used to be accustomed to. Thankfully it didn't disgust him as much today, which was probably because he had skipped breakfast and lunch and hadn't had a thing to drink since six o'clock that morning.

Diving right back into his old job of constant chaos and countless, stressed people bustling by him every minute of the day probably hadn't been the best idea to begin his rehabilitation with, but Peter couldn't _not_ do his part to help somehow now that he was back here. Gone were the slow, silent days of reading, strolling or just plain pottering around the city at his own pace and leisure: the days that had punctuated his ceaseless attempts to break down the mental barrier surrounding his enclosure. _This_ was his life now. And while, really, he knew he probably should have given himself time to get accustomed to the real world before starting back at work, he chose to think of it as just an escapement. A means to be able to help in any manner he could, while also taking his mind off the evolving push and pull of the world going on outside this building. Until it all became too much, that was.

Currently, Peter had already cut into the first four minutes of his only break, but just as soon as he put the finishing touches on poor old Mr Oliver's chart, he intended to slip away into an empty supply closet for some much needed peace and quiet and, of course, coffee. Ten minutes. That was all he needed. Just ten minutes to recharge, recollect himself and become the best he could possibly be for the rest of the day. He wasn't even sure which commodity he treasured the most during the busiest shifts – the solitude or the coffee. Today his dehydrated, weary form was leaning towards the coffee.

“Peter?”

Peter jumped at the sound of his name, accidentally ending his sentence with a lopsided scribble of pen that scored through the line above. Turning to see who had called him, he quickly scanned over the recesses of the hospital for a familiar face. None stood out at him. Turning his attention back to the task at hand, he decided he must have imagined it in his over-hyped state.

“ _Peter_?”

Once more he scrawled an unhelpful spine on his last letter as he turned around to search for whoever clearly _was_ calling for him. This time Peter discerned that the voice was female, and she was laughing at him. But again, he saw nobody he recognised or thought would know him... until finally his gaze landed on a young woman standing barely five metres away. She waved at him and laughed again, a short, choked sound of sympathy, and it was only that noise coupled with her smile that eventually betrayed her identity.

“Claire?!” Peter gaped in disbelief as he stared at her, clumsily dropping his clipboard on the counter beside him and starting towards her.

“Has it really been that long that you don't even know me anymore?” Claire smiled wider and clip-clopped over, arms open wide for a hug.

“Hey! Sorry! I didn't recognise you!” Peter rambled, still reeling in shock. He hadn't seen this girl up close for years from his perspective, and it was safe to say that... well... this wasn't quite what he had expected to set eyes on when they finally reunited.

She cuddled around his waist in a brief, tight hug, and he kissed the top of her head on autopilot. Claire... It couldn't be... She felt the same in his arms as she used to, but the sight of her was still struggling to process through Peter's sluggish, caffeine-deprived brain. His lips pressed onto the top of long, brown hair before the pair stepped apart, and Peter tried to suppress the nasty lurch in his stomach as he anxiously swept a hand through his own dark locks.

*

“Your hair - why did you-?”

“It's the only way I could go incognito anymore. I guess it really works if even _you_ didn't know it was me!” Claire raised a playful eyebrow at Peter, proudly taking in the astonished look on her uncle's young, yet weary face.

The poor guy looked exhausted. He was unshaven, pale, and his hair was untended and almost longer than she had ever seen it. Within that quick glance, Claire highly doubted he'd been looking after himself properly since they'd last met. It was amusing (in a totally guilty, insensitive way of course) that Peter looked more like himself to Claire when he was tired, bloody or verging on the edge of downright ill. Probably because that's how she'd first met him. He looked close to that now.

It wasn't until setting eyes on her faithful hero this very second that Claire even noticed how much she'd missed him, and slightly regretted getting as swept up in the flurry of fame and publicity as she had done – so much that she had lost contact with her own family. Both families, actually.

It had been well before the carnival since she'd last spoken to Peter. Nathan's funeral, if Claire was correct in thinking. Since that day it seemed a change had come over him (probably the result of losing his big brother, she assumed) and she suddenly felt awful for not contacting him sooner to see how he was doing without Nathan. The change in this young man was subtle, probably invisible to those who didn't know him very well, yet enough to taint the air around him like gentle wisps of smoke. He seemed... older, somehow. As if in the wake of losing his best friend he had aged years internally in the span of a month or two. After a brief, silent debate, Claire decided not to launch into a lecture about self care within the first minute of seeing him again, and so tried to lighten the trepidation in his eyes by employing a little curtsey for his benefit.

“Do you like it?” Claire prompted, flicking her uncharacteristic, dark hair over her shoulder. Then she rolled her eyes, scoffing to show her true disinterest in her new look. “My publicist Danielle says it makes me look very _distinct_ , but I'm not so sure. It's worth it though. Really, it's just a relief to not have cameras pointing at me wherever I go...”

Far too late, Peter puffed out air in an obvious attempt to compose himself and encourage her. He failed miserably.“Yeah! Yeah... it looks... it looks great!”

Claire's cheery mood quickly sobered when she realised his odd reaction to seeing her wasn't fading. No... there was something else going on here that was clearly bothering him. “Peter, it's just a wig... what's wrong?”

*

Just a wig. At least that was more reassuring than permanent hair dye, but Claire Bennet's signature blonde locks had always been so much more than just a _colour._ Surely this makeover was just a coincidence, right? It didn't have to mean anything more. It had just been a shock, that's all, setting eyes on her in person for the first time since her legendary dive at the Sullivan Brothers' Carnival and seeing not his niece, but someone else. Someone he never wanted to meet again. Clearly, this girl standing before him was the same sweet kid he knew and cared for: she was happy to see him, she was _good,_ and as far as Peter could see, there were no scalpels hidden up her sleeves for later use on him...

Claire just watched him with a quizzical expression, her fingers wrapping around his forearms in a warm and affectionate touch. Her familiar face soothed him a little. Shaking himself to dismiss haunting, old memories, Peter finally smiled convincingly in a proper greeting.

“Nothing's wrong. I'm sorry, I'm just tired after a busy morning... and it was a shock. Seeing you like that.” He smiled again, reassuringly. He lifted a finger to stroke a stray hair off Claire's face, feeling it silky and false underhand. Now that he was properly looking, it was easy to believe from up close that the hair was just a disguise. The weight in his chest eased a little.

“Talking of hair...” Claire drawled, stretching up to tug at the locks trailing over the back of Peter's collar. “Yours has gotten so _long_...”

“What? Oh. Yeah.” Peter cringed self-consciously under the scrutiny, tucking the subject of her attention back into place behind his ear for the millionth time that day.

“Don't tell me you're too busy to get a haircut?” Claire looked at him sternly, a definite what-did-I-tell-you-about-looking-after-yourself expression stamped on her face.

Peter shook his head lightly in response. “Nope. Just like it this way.” He said simply, because explaining that he had gotten so used to having his hair longer than he normally wore it for five, long years in a dream prison and was now reluctant to cut it would be far too complicated. Almost guiltily, he changed the subject. “D'you want a coffee? I was just about to get one.”

“No thanks, I re-caffeinated on the way over.” Seemingly satisfied with his performance of mental stability, Claire groaned and wandered off towards two empty seats aligned against the corridor wall, settling in for a long talk. Peter followed her, secretly longing after a scrap of steaming, milky sustenance that he knew was likely to evade him for another few hours at least. But Claire was more important. _Family_ was more important.

He perched on the edge of his chair, elbows on his knees and fingers linked. “So what's up?” He asked, watching the young woman beside him earnestly.

Claire grimaced and sighed heavily. “I just badly needed to see a friendly face.”

Peter felt a shy, affected smile tug at his lips. Nobody else except his mother and Sylar had bothered with him for weeks. “I need to see a friendly face, too. I've really missed you.” He said truthfully, nudging her fondly with his elbow. Although it wasn't quite the same as sitting in the dark supply closet with his back to a cold, rough and reminiscent wall for ten minutes, spending his break with a loved one definitely also carried a calming affect. Had it really been over five years since Peter had last spoken to this girl...?

His niece let out a dry chuckle, avoiding his eyes. “Thanks. I know, feels like I've been away for years or something, doesn't it...?” She joked, and Peter fought to keep thoughts of an empty, dead city from showing on his face. “Sorry I missed your birthday. And Christmas. I was thinking of you, kept meaning to call but before I knew it the weeks had already slipped past. What'd you do for the holidays?”

“Nothing much. I spent my birthday here.” Peter shrugged modestly, purposely omitting the part where after his shift had ended, he'd spent a very enjoyable evening at Sylar's apartment watching movies and eating too much cold pizza. It probably wasn't the best way to break into the _particular_ topic of Sylar... “Spent Christmas with my mother.” He recalled the day in question. While he had been torn between spending the holiday with his remaining family who had nobody else but him, or his only friend who also had nobody else but him, he hadn't shared a Christmas with Angela in far too long. Sylar on the other hand... Peter had spent the past five holiday seasons with him after all. It was the right thing to do to share that precious time of year with family, even if his decision had been cemented only after Sylar's insistence that he'd be fine by himself.

“Right.” Claire acknowledged sadly. “The first Christmas since Nathan... I was thinking of him, too. And as for you... I can't imagine what you must've gone through.” The sudden, unexpected mention of Peter's loved and lost brother winded him painfully, and he kept quiet under Claire's sympathetic, roaming eyes.

His first Christmas without Nathan... unlike what Claire thought, it hadn't just recently transpired. No, that fateful day had taken place within the confines of Parkman's mind prison, of course. Echoes of it, the pain, the heartbreak, still hurt to remember but Peter knew he would never forget it. He'd been so broken that day. He'd avoided Sylar for almost a full week beforehand, despite the other man's attempts to break bread together to celebrate the season. Peter had been far too angry, had missed his family far too much on that special occasion to even so much as _look_ at Nathan's murder – let alone laugh and drink and sing carols together. He had locked himself away in his quiet, empty apartment and mourned his brother, his mother, everyone and everything he had ever known, all alone in the depths of his stagnant realm until the morning hours of the following day finally rolled in.

That year had housed the worst birthday and Christmas of Peter's life. Perhaps even the lowest point of his entire punishment behind that damned wall. This past Christmas though, the one to which Claire was referring, couldn't have been more different. While of course it hurt like hell to look at Nathan's empty chair at the table, and to simultaneously be wishing that the reason for said empty chair could be sitting at his other side and not spending the entire day alone somewhere, sharing that precious time with his mother had soothed a void in Peter that he hadn't even realised he carried. It was such an ordinary tradition in this extraordinary world, and for those precious hours only they had forbidden any touchy subjects (including, of course, Sylar) and Peter and Angela were merely mother and son celebrating and reminiscing and eating Christmas dinner together. Like a normal family. A normal family exempt from the terrifying tornado of change that the young woman currently sitting beside Peter had solely bestowed upon the world.

For a moment Peter and Claire sat together, unspeaking, while the hospital continued to buzz faintly around them. Peter waited patiently, aware of his precious break time elapsing with every second but willing to wait it out until Claire felt comfortable enough to share what was really on her mind. It didn't take too long.

*

Claire heaved a great, troubled sigh. “I ditched my security detail to get here.” She confessed. “Urgh, I'm just so sick of it all. Lifestyles of the rich and famous...? Yeah, it's not so fun up close.”

Peter listened sincerely, as he always did. She could feel his gentle gaze burning into her face as she avoided his eyes. “So...? You want out...?” Somehow, through that always impeccably understanding means he possessed, the words didn't come across as patronizing in the least – the way she knew they would had they come from anyone else besides Peter Petrelli.

Claire grimaced, grinding her teeth at the tender topic. “Yeah.” She admitted aloud for the first time. “No. Maybe? I dunno...” She huffed, picking at a chipped edge of her nail polish. “Maybe I don't have to _stop_... to do something else too?”

It was embarrassing, which was why she hadn't voiced this aloud to many people yet. Claire knew full well that she'd brought this on herself, and it was her own fault that she was now caught up in this lifestyle that she was steadily beginning to hate. She just couldn't face the unsympathetic judgement that she knew would be thrown her way if she told anyone else that she wanted an easy way out from the mess she'd created: her mom, Angela, Gretchen, so on so forth. But Peter... Peter would never scold her. He was the perfect fallback, a quiet presence who was always there for Claire whenever she needed to vent her feelings without fear of judgement, even if she didn't call very often to catch up with him. He was consistent, trustworthy, and when almost everyone else Claire had ever known had lied to her in some shape or form, trust was a very precious trait to come by.

“It's just that... when I jumped from that wheel, I thought that I would be helping people. But all this? “Miracle Girl”...?” She hooked her fingers into sarcastic air quotes. “It was supposed to be so much more than what it's turned into, more than just donating blood to scientists who can't even get it to work properly. I wanted to do something _important_.”

“You're an inspiration, Claire.” Peter said quietly, yet Claire still couldn't quite look at him. “At the very least you're _helping_ that kid who is all alone, scared or ashamed of their ability, and who just needs someone to look up to to give them courage. That _is_ important. Didn't you wish for someone like that when this all started? I know I did.”

Tickled by his words, Claire expressed a self-depreciating scoff. At last she dragged her eyes to meet the familiar, warm and comforting ones of her uncle, and let out a dry, humourless chuckle. “I called my dad this morning. Let me just say it was... eventful. I haven't seen him in person since that night. At first I thought he'd be mad at what I did and I didn't want to hear it... then I was just dreading the “told you so, you should have listened to me, I was only trying to protect you, Claire Bear” crap.”

“Well he _was._ ” Peter stated with a kind, teasing glint in his eye.

“I know! But I didn't wanna tell _him_ that!” Claire exclaimed, causing Peter to laugh at her exaggerated, whiny display. Encouraged by what she suspected was his first _genuine_ show of humour so far, Claire continued. “I asked him to get me a job at his new company.” At once the light fell from his face and Peter blanched in horror. Claire quickly held her hands up in surrender. “Not _the_ company! It's a new one. Some expensive technology organization where they're trying to help integrate registered evos into the world. “All legal”.” She finished with another bout of air quotes and a smile.

*

“That “Renautas” place?” Peter asked huskily, his voice having momentarily seen fit to desert him.

“That's the one.” Claire confirmed, nodding her head and slapping her hands to her thighs. “I'm meeting him later today to talk more about it. I swear, if he shows up to bribe me with a chocolate milk...!”

The twist in Peter's gut was impossible to ignore at the mention of the word, that same word that had kept appearing in his drawings... _evo_. Since the President had announced the recognised term for this new breed of “Evolved Humans”, every time Peter heard it he was cast back to memories of painful muscle cramp and a dark, cold room, where he'd literally held the future in his own two hands. And he was reminded over again how uneasy he still was to have let this timeline play out unrestricted so far.

Sure, everything still seemed to be fairly okay, but that new company – Renautas – sent chills down Peter's spine whenever he thought of it. He didn't like the sound of it at all, especially if it was in leagues with the newly introduced Evo Registration Act that had been implemented to keep track of evos who voluntarily came forward – 'for their own protection', of course. Renautas had popped up to soothe the whole situation much too quickly for Peter's liking, and every glossy ad on the TV, on the side of buses or in magazines didn't fool him for a second. It was just another Company, another Pinehearst, and of _course_ Noah was working there. He should have expected nothing less.

But for Noah to willingly include Claire in it...? Either she was right and it really _was_ all legal (unlikely), or Noah was so desperate to get back into his daughter's good books that he'd get her a job beside him just to see her again (not so unlikely). Either way, the thought of Claire getting involved in a shady company organisation...? It's safe to say it wasn't very encouraging.

Peter bit down the angry snarl that wanted to burst free at the thought of Noah Bennet. Things were still raw, there: the men hadn't been in contact since the less-than-courteous phone call the morning after the carnival. That was yet another loose end that swooped away out of Peter's line of sight but refused to leave his awareness: the apparent 'evil scheme' that Noah had been wary of, not to mention his opinion on Peter's new friend... There were far too many loose ends nowadays, pulling him under and smothering him, making it all too easy to crumble under the stress of so many spinning plates... but for Claire, Peter raised his eyebrows in feigned intrigue. He tried to ignore the prickling sensation lifting the hairs on the back of his neck, to ignore the nurses that passed with steaming, fragrant, styrofoam cups in their hands, and focus his attention intently on his niece who needed him more importantly right now than he needed coffee and refuge from the big, scary world.

It was tempting to warn her against Renautas, but with no proof to back up his gut feeling, coupled with the fact Peter knew Claire hadn't come to him to be told by yet another person what to do with her life, he bit back everything he so desperately wanted to say.

“I never pictured you as much of an office girl.” He teased lightly, his eyes crinkling fondly at the smile that lifted Claire's round cheeks. He truly wished, with every inch of his heart, that she wouldn't lose that smile.

“Yeah? Well I never pictured myself as much of a poster girl, either.”

Just then, double doors banged open nearby and a gaggle of chattering children skipped past – a family, all desperate to get a good look at the new cast on one young boy's leg. They didn't spare a second glance at Peter or Claire (why would they when the Captain America leg cast was the most amazing thing in the entire world?!), yet Peter didn't miss the way Claire ducked her head and turned her face away for fear of recognition. His lips fell from the timid smile and into a tense, sympathetic line.

Lowering his voice, Peter leaned over in his seat until his shoulder budged Claire's reassuringly. “So what brought on this change of heart? Running away from your team like that? It's not like you...” He said sarcastically, well aware of Claire's past record of sneaking away against the rules whenever she felt like it.

Claire let out yet another sigh, and this one was nasal and choked with dissatisfaction.

*

“I wanted to see the world for myself and not through a pointless security team or tinted windows.”

It seemed the most ridiculous thing that the _Indestructible Girl_ was tailed by a team of agents for her protection, but Claire could only handle so many people running up to her in the street and cutting or hurting her in some way, just to watch her heal before their eyes. After a particularly nasty event in which a girl had brought an archery set to one of Claire's press panels, she hadn't had such an issue with having a constant security team around her. But they were still pointless, though. Technically.

However, today Claire hadn't run away from her team out of badness, or a teenage sense to rebel (no, she'd already passed that stage a few weeks back). She just really _did_ need to talk to someone who knew her as more than the media star she had become. Finally she'd had enough of everyone answering her questions about the world outside her celebrity bubble with nothing more than smiles and encouragement. The world is doing great! Everyone loves you! You made a brilliant decision, honey, and you should be _proud_ of yourself! Be proud, be strong, and don't forget to smile for the camera, sweetheart...

It all sounded so false.

The only scraps of _reality_ that Claire could scavenge were the occasional emails or texts from her mom, and the more frequent ones from Gretchen. But sadly, even that relationship had fallen by the wayside in the hysteria following that night in Central Park, despite Claire's attempts to keep in contact. Obviously, Claire had dropped out of college – it wasn't like she'd ever gone to the classes anyway. She didn't miss it, but she _did_ really miss her... friend. They'd never even had the time to define what they were... would possibly have become. Claire doubted she'd ever find out anyway. She hadn't heard from Gretch in over three weeks now.

Unfortunately, Claire had picked up enough information already to know that not everything in the real world was as peachy as she was being led to believe behind closed doors. And it was a thought that continued to claw and clutch after her like a needy child seeking attention: what if something awful happened, and it was _her_ fault, and she wasn't even “allowed” to hear about it...? She wouldn't let it happen. And if it took quitting her post and working with her dad to finally break free, then so be it.

Purposely pushing painful thoughts aside, Claire took solace in the form of her kind, caring and compassionate uncle at her side. “You've heard of those gangs, right?” She asked quietly, trying to sound more knowledgeable than she really was.

Peter bit his lip, toying with it in his teeth. There were many thoughts spiralling around behind his eyes, Claire new, but she also knew he would never tell her them because even after _everything_ they'd been through – he still wanted to protect her from anything that would cause her even the slightest bit of harm. Today that knowledge was endearing instead of insulting, as it usually was. It was nice to know that someone actually cared for _her_ , and not just for her best angle before a dozen hungry cameras.

*

“Yeah.” Peter finally nodded. “Yeah, I heard about them. Groups of... of _evos_ protesting the Registration Act, right?”

Claire mimicked Peter's nod, and the realisation that every single person on the entire planet, every person making up those gangs, had been affected by this very girl sitting beside him overwhelmed Peter. He dipped his head again to sever their eye contact. She seemed to be only just now considering the implications of her earth-shattering actions, and while Peter did feel for her finally coming to grips with this huge responsibility, he still didn't at all agree with what she'd done in the first place. Of course he wouldn't tell her that and hurt her when she was clearly already feeling guilty. And while it _was_ true that stepping out with her abilities would definitely have inspired other people to accept themselves, it had still been an impossibly selfish decision.

“As far as I know those gangs haven't done anything dangerous yet. They're just trying to assert their rights... Can't say I blame them, really.” He chuckled dryly, thinking of all those people who simply didn't want to be dragged away from their normal lives and branded as a different race to that of their loved ones. It wasn't fair and it wasn't right. And even though the Evo Registration Act was voluntary at present, it was a demeaning manacle all the same.

“Me neither.” Claire grumbled, absent-mindedly digging one of her high heels into the laminate flooring underfoot. Strange... Peter suddenly wondered when he'd missed his niece grow from a fresh-faced cheerleader with her messy curls, lumpy sweaters and old trainers to this sleek, sophisticated young woman wearing tailored pants and designer heels. He'd been out of touch with anyone but Sylar for so long... even _before_ Matt had trapped them together. Claire's stiletto scored another gauge in the flooring. “You never admitted to having an ability?” She asked. Very loudly.

Peter hushed her, glancing around in a panic. Thankfully, nobody seemed to have heard her. “I might do someday when I feel the time is right, but... there are a lot of us still in hiding. Not everyone wanted to be thrown into the spotlight, Claire.” He said it gently, with no intention to accuse her. “Not everyone is happy to be different.”

“Hmm... I know the feeling.” She huffed, continuing to take her discomfort out on the laminate floor.

*

Brushing her brown hair off her face, Claire shook her head at her own naivete. “I thought the world was ready for this, I thought _I_ was ready. For a world with powers, where people are flying and running at impossible speeds through the streets to get to work every morning!” The sight was one she had fantasised about for so long, yet actually walking through it on her way to the hospital today had been the most bizarre, dreamlike sensation. She still couldn't quite wrap her head around it. “It just doesn't feel real...”

“I think the world _is_ ready, Claire. Look around. Nobody's dying, nobody's getting kidnapped and harboured like criminals.” Again, Clare allowed her eyes to roam over the pallid, handsome face before her. He really _was_ tired. Stressed. There was a weight to his usually bright eyes, and now more than ever she was certain there was something huge he was refusing to tell her. Even though the words he was speaking should have been comforting, Claire couldn't let them relax her. That old worry was starting to build into a pressure behind her eyes.

“But what about those gangs that have started up all over the world? What if they get violent? Or do something really bad and it's _my fault_?!” She hissed through her teeth, quiet enough that the people walking by wouldn't be able to hear her.

The hospital continued to whir around them, swept up in its own haphazard clockwork. Claire's attention fell to her nail polish again, succeeding in peeling off another flake of coral paint. After another moment of hesitation, Peter ducked his head to meet her eyes behind the long curtain of his hair, and dropped his tone. “Listen... I drew the future. And I think... I think that everything's gonna work out okay.”

*

There was no reason not to tell her, after all. It wasn't a secret. It was foretold, it was _going to happen_... and even if Peter still couldn't put his trust fully in those drawings, why couldn't they be used to console someone he cared about?

But then Claire crossed her arms and squinted her eyes dubiously. “You painted the _future_? How'd you manage that? I thought the painter _died_.”

Oh shit. Peter hesitated for a brief moment. He hadn't thought about that part. He could always lie and say he brushed against a stranger and accidentally took their power? Pretend he'd met up with Parkman to borrow it? Or, he realised with a lurch of his stomach... he could tell her the truth. This conversation had to happen sometime after all, right? And leaving it until more weeks had already passed probably wasn't such a good idea.

“...I got it from Sylar.” He said, deciding just to be honest, but vague, and just _hoping_ that she wasn't going to take the news too badly...

“Urgh, Sylar!” Claire groaned in disgust.

Peter's heart fell. Claire Bennet, of all people, had a very sore spot whenever it came down to Sylar. It wasn't that Peter could blame her, of course. For she didn't know about the five years Peter had spent within another man's head: all the fighting, all the crying, the unprecedented bond that had evolved there between the two lonely souls in the gaping city... It wasn't Claire's fault, nor Sylar's, that they hadn't spoken since Sylar's redemption had faced the open air for the first time. Still, Peter suddenly felt his chest constrict at the realisation that he'd really have to explain it all aloud. And after all his efforts to protect her, to prevent his beloved niece from ever coming to harm, he was going to hurt her terribly when he told her... when she found out...

“When did you see _Sylar_?” Claire asked. By the way she was eyeing him, it was as if she had imagined another duel to the death between the two men that Peter had coincidentally neglected to tell her about. The thought was morbidly amusing. Ripping each other to shreds with their bare hands would be nowhere near as shocking as the truth.

Peter licked his suddenly very dry lips. It had been easy to tell Noah, not as easy to tell Angela, but he had done so persistently anyway, as for Claire... she was different. He couldn't bear to see her look upon him with disappointment, with betrayal. But then what about Sylar? Who needed – no – who _deserved_ a chance to be seen as more than he used to be? Who Peter was absolutely determined to defend against anyone who wouldn't challenge their perception of him...?

He found himself beginning to burn under Claire's gaze, and tried and failed twice to say something. Despite the surging sense of loyalty coursing through his veins and the needle of his moral compass straining in the right direction... somehow Peter was still unable to force the words he wanted to say out of his mouth. Instead, he finally managed a weak recovery from the awkward silence. “...It doesn't matter when. Just that I got the power, and I saw the future.”

It wasn't a lie. It wasn't even a solid answer. He just forgot to specifically state that he also happened to have seen Sylar multiple times a week since the night she'd changed everything in Central Park. That he was still learning to live without the other man's constant presence, and that even in this second he missed the sound of his voice or having his familiar movements nearby.

*

Sylar... the incessant killer who had haunted her for years. The sinister figure who had killed her biological father so soon after they'd finally been reunited. Sylar. The dark shadow in the locker room, the probing fingers inside her exposed brain, the deranged psycho who had then actually believed that she would _help_ him after everything he'd done to her...! Claire had never known hatred until that man had slaughtered his way into her life. It was reassuring to know, however, that she wasn't alone in this feeling. The only other person who hated Sylar almost as much as her was currently sitting at her side with his shoulder brushing comfortingly against hers.

“Don't talk to me about Sylar. If I never hear about him again, it'll be too soon.” She tried to lighten the conversation with a little chortle which Peter didn't return.

Instead he gnawed his lower lip and dipped his head again. The lack of a reply filled the air stagnantly, and Claire simply watched a long curtain of dark hair fall to obscure the young man's face. That lock at the front was so long again... falling almost level to his lips. It shouldn't have been an issue (after all – what had she said to Peter about _her_ hair upon arrival?), but it was almost disconcerting to see him look less neat and groomed and _sturdy_ than she was now used to. She hadn't seen him look so unkempt since the night he'd exploded in Kirby Plaza. He had most certainly not been in a good place in his life back then, and Claire briefly wondered if she should be worried about him now.

Peter continued to hide behind the safe veil of his hair as he no doubt battled with conflicted, angry feelings and words that he would never dare subject her “sensitive” soul to. However, Claire didn't blame him for this reaction in response to the current topic of conversation – Peter had every right to despise his brother's murderer all he wanted. It was only natural that he still be wounded after the recent death of Nathan. His friend, brother and hero.

Overcome with a sudden wash of sadness for Peter, _her_ friend, _her_ hero, who had nobody and nothing except this job which looked to be draining everything from him, Claire reached over and slipped her hand into his. She gave a reassuring squeeze. His palm was warm, slightly rough and positively burning with the pure empathy she loved about him. Long fingers twitched around Claire's hand in return, however it was only a tiny acknowledgement rather than full acceptance of her comfort.

Peter swallowed and shuffled a little closer on his seat to hers. “Claire... do you believe that people can change?”

Claire eyed him dubiously, half expecting this to turn into a joke she couldn't understand yet. “You're talking about _Sylar_...?”

Peter's hair swung as he nodded his head wordlessly, then swished as he flicked it out of his eyes to turn and face her again. There was pain swirling inside his hazel irises, clashing and diverging as if a multitude of different thoughts were battling through his consciousness in a whirlwind storm. It was a look Claire had seen him wear before. Back when he was once again hurt and bloody and she'd helped him limp home and clean his wounds that refused to heal in the absence of abilities... She remembered the exact same expression of restlessness, question and conviction as he'd insisted that Sylar had thrown him out the top floor of a building in order to save his life...

Just the thought of it: Sylar – a changed man. It was obscene. He had ripped Claire's innocence away the very moment he had murdered Jackie Wilcox in cold blood before her eyes. He had physically violated her by sawing off the top of her skull to steal her ability. Then also stolen both her biological parents from her, torn them from the face of the earth before she'd even got a chance to properly know them... He was disgusting. Nothing more than pathetic cretin disfigured by power and hate.

“No. I don't think he can change.” Claire said truthfully, and noted the hurt little flinch that rolled through Peter. “I don't believe anyone could save him. There's nothing good within him _to_ save. And hey...” She squeezed her uncle's slack fingers again. “That is _not_ your job. After what he _did_...? He doesn't deserve anything from you... and certainly not your guilt.” It was Peter's blink of surprise that prompted Claire to elaborate. “Angela told me what happened here in the hospital. When you were trying to save Nathan...” Another flinch shook the man, and Claire let the rest of the tender story hang, unfinished.

She had heard about Peter's 'stunt' with a nail gun and Sylar in a failed, hopeless, but valiant attempt to save the last, dying tendrils of Nathan from within the killer's mind. Things had gotten pretty vicious and bloody by the sounds of it, and according to Angela, there was now a misguided sense of remorse on Peter's part for how violent he'd been in the heat of the fight. Apparently Peter felt awful for attacking another person like that and had been spending some time “dwelling on Sylar lately”. But as far as Claire was concerned, Sylar was _not_ a person. He had passed that point of no return a good dozen or so murders ago.

*

Peter knew she was trying to be comforting. She was trying to help him overcome some phony cover story that his mother had clearly span rather than dare tell anyone her son was in league with a killer. Although the sentiment was nice, a guilty heat had began to prickle along Peter's skin where Claire held his hand so sweetly. He was lying to her. Or at least not telling her the truth, which was almost as bad.

“He's a monster, Peter, and we're better off not knowing where he's crawled off to.”

*

At the word “monster”, Peter slipped his hand free from her hold and averted his eyes once again. As if it was painful to hear, or something. “No one is a monster, Claire. I mean, yeah, some people are worse than others, some people lose their way... but in the end we're all still the same. We're all human.”

This time Claire let out a genuinely amused giggle. “Right. Are you even listening to yourself? You do know who we're talking about, don't you?” The smile faded from her face when she realised that yes, despite the insane words he'd just cast over the pair, Peter was serious. Jesus, he really _must_ be ill! Delirious maybe after working too hard... “He's only ever hurt people. Nathan! You! _Me_...!”

There was that same look again, from after his fall at Pinehearst. An honest insistence that the cuts and bruises marring Peter's broken form had been delivered mercifully by the man who had already murdered him more than once. “He saved me, remember? And he never hurt Gretchen, at college, when he could have.”

“...Did... did I tell you about that?”

Peter took a second to take a breath, and when he spoke his voice was sufficiently steadier than the taut facade that had tumbled from his lips just seconds ago. “I just mean, what if he _chose_ to stop? What if _he_ saved himself?” He scratched at the collar of his paramedic shirt, as if it was suddenly itchy and uncomfortable. Narrowing his eyes and tilting his head to one side, he studied her face intensely for a reaction. “Don't you think that's possible? That he could change and we don't have to fear him anymore...?”

And suddenly it all clicked into place. It all made sense. Oh, Peter...

*

A wash of understanding seeped over Claire's face, and for a moment Peter dared to believe that she had detected the truth and that she was actually _okay_ with it...! She squeezed his hand again, and this time Peter returned the gesture gratefully.

“You don't have to be afraid of him, Peter.” Claire soothed gently.

Wait. He took a second to catch up with this direction in conversation. She thought...?

“He can't hurt me. At least not anymore than he already has. And as for Angela... somehow I doubt she'd go down without a fight.” Claire assured him gently, her face soft and round and kind, and Peter couldn't bring himself to correct her misguided train of thought. When she next spoke, he was reminded so vividly of the first proper conversation he'd ever had with her in a tiny, bare cell in Odessa. She smiled lovingly at him, adoration plain on her face for all to see. And there she was: the young girl he'd come to know and love peeking from within the incriminating brown hair and polished exterior of the new, classy woman. “I know it's scary after losing so much to Sylar already. But I can promise that you won't lose me, too.”

She blinked bright eyes at him and continued to smile with such reassurance, trust and affection that Peter was wholly unable to wipe that look off her face with words that could endanger the very foundation of their relationship. He fidgeted for a moment, knowing that when the truth came out eventually she'd only hate him more for keeping it from her. He should tell her about Sylar – he _knew_ that. For the sake of both his friend _and_ his niece. The lie would only intensify over time, the roots of betrayal would only have time to grow deeper, and it would be so much worse than if he could just fucking _spit the words out_ _now_...

But... that was a worry for another day.

A nervous, conflicted smile flickered over Peter's face, hopefully enough to placate her while his conscience stung terribly. “Thanks.” He murmured, smiling directly into her green eyes this time with all the gratitude he could muster. Coward. Fuck, he was such a coward... “That's nice to know.” His smile twitched wider while inside he was caught up in a confusing blur of affection and guilt towards both his friends.

“Well hey, it's also nice to know that, according to your drawings, I haven't ruined the future!” Claire insisted, leaning in and settling down with her head against Peter's shoulder. He held her close with one arm around her shoulders and closed his eyes, savouring the simplicity of something so precious as a hug. After craving human touch for so long in the dream, Peter would now happily go about his day while being constantly wrapped around another person if it was socially appropriate. Drinking in the affection directed his way, he rubbed Claire's shoulder and allowed the weight and warmth of another living being pressed into him to quench the parching thirst that had tortured him for far too long. It had been years since he'd sat and had a proper conversation with anyone other than Sylar and, occasionally, Angela. It was still rare to be embraced such as this in the tender, loving, innocent hold of a family member.

It was the nicest moment Peter had experienced in a while, except for the dishonesty that was rubbing away at him inside, leaving him raw and aching. Peter knew without even checking the time that his break was now over, and still he desperately yearned for a drink and at least a few seconds to hide out from the crowds around him. It had been a nice respite though to reconcile with Claire again at last. However, he still felt brittle and rusted like a thirsty machine that had overworked itself under terrible care and now couldn't run properly until it was oiled at the joints. But he had to get back to work. There was no time to hide now, not when people were going to need him.

He didn't break his cuddle with Claire just yet though, reluctant to pull out of the simple miracle of human contact. He didn't know when he'd next see her again or if she'd even want to associate with him then, and there was so much he wanted to say before letting her leave: take care of yourself, be careful when it comes to Renautas, tell your Dad to go fuck himself, and most of all... please don't hate me when you find out that I'm harbouring a secret friendship with the man you hate most in the world...

But he didn't say anything. The nicest instants in life are all so brief, so fragile, and Peter found that even if he succeeded in prying his fingers from the lid of his secrets, the lock refused to open anyway. He chose to take it as a sign that somehow, even if he couldn't quite see how yet, it was the right thing to do to keep this short-lived moment intact.

He'd tell her about Sylar later, he promised. For there was no way she wouldn't find out... one way or another.

 

***

 

The soothing harmony of clockwork flowed through the otherwise quiet recesses of the shop. Each individual tickhad its own voice, its own character, and together the choir resounded peacefully around Sylar. The song they sang was one so familiar that he didn't even notice it anymore.

With the precision, love and skill possessed only by a master of his profession, Sylar tenderly fed yet another gear into it's rightful place within his present undertaking: an old wristwatch that belonged to his client's grandfather. It was an original piece, rare and delicate, if a little worse for wear. It was an old boy, this one, and deserved the appropriate care that only Sylar knew how to provide. Concentrating, unblinking, through the lens of his magnifying glasses, he set the sliver of metal snugly in its place with a faint _click_ of satisfaction. Almost finished. He let out his breath and leaned back, stretching his neck and glancing at one of the many working clock faces littered around the shop.

It was barely four o'clock. He was making good time with this order, and should have the watch repaired within the next half hour before Ms Lawrence came to collect it. Then there would be only an hour or so before he'd close up the shop, and then there would be nothing but the dragging, uneventful hours of the evening and night to come, and then he'd come back here in the morning and sit in this same exact spot for yet another quiet day of mediocrity...

If he was completely honest – Sylar was a little disappointed in himself for allowing this to be his daily routine. Fearsome Sylar, powerful Sylar, the man who had finally climbed so high from his old, pitiful existence that he didn't have to answer to _anyone_... was still a watchmaker. By choice this time, true, but still... the “wait it out” period of this timeline was taking longer than he had first anticipated. When would it be okay to move on from this? To start actually making a difference in the world? A _good_ difference, this time...? Watches and tools were certainly _not_ all Sylar had in mind for himself this time round.

At times the long-forgotten cloud of inadequacywould rear its ugly head, a demon who still had a taste for its old friend Gabriel Gray. However, instead of succumbing to the darkness that the cloud exhaled, as he had used to back in the day, now Sylar was determined to allow it only to inspire him to get out there and start _doing_ something about his situation! The only problem was there was nothing out there for him to do. Nobody needed him to save them, there were no opportunities for him to start proving himself as a good guy... Sometimes he found himself almost wishing for a tragedy to strike, just so he had an excuse to flee this pretence at life and get stuck into the good stuff at last – his newly blossoming hero duties. It was unimaginably selfish of him, of course he was aware of that, but it was that sinister little voice in the back of his mind that kept suggesting the urge to maybe, well... speed things along a little...

Sylar sighed, lifting his work glasses off his face to scrub his hand over it. Earlier he had stepped outside once for a brief breath of air, but aside from that today had been slow, quiet, boring and just plain _ordinary_. While the current project strewn out carefully over his workbench was a rare one that really held his interest, the rest of this lifestyle was... well... anything but. Despite what he had enthused to Peter on that fateful night back in December, actually _living_ this simple life of his, post-freedom, was steadily losing its charm. Being cooped up in here alone day after day had began to spread nasty reminders through Sylar of the lowly, unspectacular years before he had _made_ something of himself (even if it hadn't quite been the right thing...). It reminded him of his first three years of utter solitude and punishment inside his head, before Peter had arrived, breathed life into the city and saved his soul and sanity. And it reminded him of the many inner conflicts and battles he'd been struggling through during the duration of his difficult redemption.

Sylar pressed his fingers against his closed eyelids to force away the memories of the barren mind prison and the haunting ache of loneliness that continued to stay with him in these quiet moments. It was easier to fall back into the mindset of fear and isolation without the quiet sounds of Peter reading over on the couch, or the smell of him burning dinner wafting in from the kitchen, or even the constant banging of him tackling the damned wall in the distance... Sylar just needed a subtle reminder that he wasn't completely alone in the world. Here, hidden in the back room of his old, musky watchmaker's shop, there was nothing at all to keep him company except his clocks and their never ending symphony, ticking in perfect unison as the days rolled by.

Sylar chuckled to himself, the sound of a human voice almost jarring amongst the machinery. God, who would have ever imagined he'd actually missthe god-forsaken _clunks!_ of the sledgehammer that had used to drive him insane for all those years...? Well, really, Sylar knew the truth of the matter: it wasn't the noise that he missed. It was the source of it. It did tend to amuse him from time to time that _his_ problem nowadays was because his days in the real world were far too similar to those in Matt's prison, whereas Peter's struggle was a polar opposite. He knew the little hero was overdoing it back at work, because of course he was, and every time Sylar had set eyes on Peter since they'd separated to their individual routines, the guy had only looked more and more drained.

Making a mental note to talk Peter into borrowing regeneration when he saw him tomorrow night, Sylar opened his eyes again and coughed, just to make a noise if for nothing else. Tomorrow night... the thought of seeing Peter comforted him. Four days were far too long to go without meeting up again. Spinning absent-mindedly in his chair, Sylar let his eyes roam over the cork-board above his desk as he pondered over how best to voice this thought over coffee tomorrow so as to avoid the problem in future.

'Future'... he had a love/hate relationship with the word. The future was a moving goalpost, the end of the rainbow that he could never find, it seemed, held out deliciously before him but constantly out of reach just to taunt him. The drawings he had co-created the night after the carnival had never strayed far from Sylar's mind, and each time he chanced a sneaky peek at one he experienced the same swooping exhilaration in his gut, just as strong every time. They were a promise... those depictions of himself and Peter venturing forth on a new adventure of some sort. At least, he assumed it was an adventure. None of the drawings of the pair showed merely a TV, coffee or pizza surrounding them after all, and so Sylar had hope that someday he would have more to do than play house and pretend to be a dedicated workman who lived for his craft.

Saying that... he really ought to put the finishing touches on Ms Lawrence's watch before she arrived. So Sylar laboriously got back to work, drowning out any non work-related thoughts and burying himself in the time piece until the bell tinkled above the shop door. A client that was actually early...? A rare phenomenon.

“I'm almost finished, just give me a minute...” He called out before tightening the last, delicate screw another quarter turn... there. Perfect. Now all he needed was to re-attach the back panel and it would be one of his best restorations to date! Releasing another sigh, this time of pride that his work was so satisfactory, Sylar leaned back in his chair and wheeled into view of the main shop... but Ms Lawrence wasn't early after all. Instead Sylar struggled to process the sight of thirteen guns pointing directly at him.

He froze, one hand still on the glasses he'd just removed and the other midway through the process of sweeping his hair off his face. The entire shop floor (which usually felt crowded when occupied by more than three people at once) was currently packed with unidentifiable, armed and outfitted agents, all with their weapons trained on a terrifying, wild beast. Sylar eyed the masked figures one by one until his his gaze finally landed on the only uncovered face the the room besides his own. And it all made sense.

Swallowing back the rage and insult that practically begged to spill forth from his fingertips, Sylar forced a kindly smile into place on his lips. “Need me to fix your watch? I'd give you a discount, but... y'know...” He cocked his head in false sympathy, allowing himself to relax his posture and place his hands harmlessly in his lap.

“Don't play smart with me, _Gabriel_...”

*

Noah Bennet watched the man before him wince, then muster up a controlled voice.

“My name is _Sylar_.” He corrected calmly. Yet all Noah could see was that same, deranged, blood-thirsty murderer screaming those very words at him through a glass window the first time they'd met face to face...

“So you've told me, if memory serves.” Noah smiled icily, tracking the trajectory of a potential bullet in his mind. Right between the eyes.

*

Sylar bristled. He, too, was suddenly plagued by images of a cold, claustrophobic room underground and the cold-hearted gun-for-hire who had taunted him from the outside of his cell. Whereas Sylar felt sickness consume him for what he had done back then, and _knew_ he had come so far since... the bespectacled man towering above his chair hadn't changed in the slightest. He was still merciless, still refusing to respect Sylar, or even so much as treat him as a human being! Perhaps most painful about the whole invading-army-situation was the venomous hatred in those eyes – identical to how it had been when they'd looked down upon an obsessed murderer swept up in the prime of his rampage those years ago.

But Sylar wasn't that person anymore. No matter if the world refused to see it or not. He was different than he'd ever been, and he couldn't go back to using 'Gabriel' now. Not after he'd journeyed so far to distance himself from the specimen he used to hate, used to _be_. At least 'Sylar' was a name he'd _chosen_ for himself. It was _his_. It was _him_! And he wasn't about to shrug it off like an ill-fitting jacket as soon as it went out of style. The man and the name had been through so much together, and by now it was too deeply ingrained to remove. Besides, abandoning it now would be cowardly and foolish! As if dropping the name would make people forget... No. They'd never forget what he'd done (sure, they'd forget each other's misdeeds and forgive their sins at the drop of a hat, but Sylar knew he was far outside that circle of trust), and so 'Sylar' he would remain. Until he could turn that shackle into a mantle he could be proud of, one that would overwrite the letters engraved in innocent blood. Or at least try to.

“If you're not here about that hideous monstrosity you call a watch, I really can't help you.” Sylar raised an eyebrow, forcing himself to stay calm. There were far too many foul memories of this man to choose from, but right then the phone call after the carnival was forcing its way to the forefront, and Sylar felt anger nipping at his patience.

“Oh, you already have, _Gabriel_...”

Bennet took a small step closer, the gun eclipsing half his face from Sylar's position. Those horn-rimmed glasses were unmistakable, as ever. Now that the surprise of this arrival had worn off, Sylar realised that he was no doubt about to partake in another attempt to be captured by the Company. Or whatever organisation Bennet was selling himself to nowadays. Ignoring the twelve other guns and focusing solely on Noah, Sylar kept the growling beast inside his chest subdued.

*

The bastard squinted in question, as if he really didn't know the reason a team of highly trained soldiers had bombarded him at this time in the afternoon. Just the sight of that face in person regurgitated years' worth of loathing within Noah, and he took advantage of the lack of response to fully express his delight.

“I should thank you for providing me with the perfect opportunity to take you down. I've been waiting for this for... huh. You know I've actually lost track?” He drawled, inching another step closer to his target. “Can't say I'm surprised you finally slipped up. But after what you just did without even breaking a sweat? That's cold. Even for you.” Noah let his disgust mingle with the gratification already sitting on his face. Although of course he didn't condone the horrific act that had transpired this afternoon, he would also be lying if he said he wasn't grateful for it.

*

Realising this was getting quite serious, Sylar dropped the nonchalant act. Grinding his teeth, he gripped the armrests of his work chair to the accompaniment of twelve agents reaffirming their aim behind Noah. “What the hell are you talking about?”

*

Ah, yes... he had always been good at playing pretend, Noah would give the guy that. There had been a time not too far back when the two men had been partnered up by Angela Petrelli to work for the Company. Although Noah had never outwardly admitted it – there _had_ been the tiniest seed of curiosity that had quite possibly, nearly, believed Sylar's pleas of wanting to change. But of course it had been a lie. Just like the Primatech delivery guy had lied to Sandra, like Zane Taylor had lied to Dr Suresh, like Agent Taub had lied to the Building 26 team... and now Sylar was lying to the entire world.

“Don't insult me, Gabriel. We both know _exactly_ what I'm talking about. I must commend you on this cover though: who would ever suspect the boring watchmaker had a craving for bloodlust on the side?” Noah said silkily, failing to hide a smug grin from taking over his face. There was no way out of this one... unlike Primatech, Renautas had the sufficient funds and... means... to hold a psychopath like this one locked up for the rest of his sick, eternal life. And Noah would be more than happy to be the one to take this elusive stag's head in for mounting at long last.

The stag twitched that magnificent head again as confusion seeped onto his features, along with an irritated edge. “So... hmm, let me guess: you think I've done something wrong...” Sylar filled in the blanks with childish, sing-song mannerisms, following each word's placement with his finger. “And now you're planning on – what? Shooting me in the face? Really...?” He raised dark eyebrows and bored deep eyes knowingly into Noah's. The middle aged man suppressed a snort: oh yeah, the son of a bitch knew he'd been caught, alright. He was too much a self-righteous show off to let someone else take his glory, and too confident in his own immortality to even try to hide that fact.

“You're not even going to deny it? I thought that was the latest plan? Play innocent and pretend you've turned over a new leaf...?” Noah glanced at his agents, causing them all to draw in a little closer.

*

Fortunately, Sylar had had more than enough experience channelling his many emotions into a suitable mask for show, otherwise he probably would have punched the other guy in his stupid, ugly glasses by now. Instead, the hairs on Sylar's arms raised in the static force of electricity beginning to ripple beneath his skin.

“Why should I even bother denying it? You wouldn't believe me if I did.” Sylar had almost forgotten what badness felt like, but it occurred to him suddenly that it was only because he had been fortunate enough not to encounter anything that angered him like this since he'd set out again on his own. Now, though, the treacly substances of upset and deep dislike were drudging through his veins, dragging him down from the serene, peaceful little pedestal he had existed on for the past month or so.

“You're right.” Noah concurred, that ominous expression still plastered across his face. “But unfortunately for you, I don't even have to listen to your lies. Not when I have evidence putting you at the scene of the crime.”

Sylar's mouth gaped open before he could stop it. “You think I'd be stupid enough to leave evidence?” Expertly hiding the hurt that this accusation had spawned within him, Sylar picked up his work glasses and span his chair back around to face the desk, turning his back on Bennet. All he had to do was fix the panel closed and that was his day's work complete! “If you could just close the door on the way out –”

“Look at me you son of a bitch!” With an uncomfortable tug, Sylar was wrenched around again by a rough hand on his shoulder. With a snarl he gripped the armrests of his chair again, ready to jump to his feet and shout his piece, but reconsidered as thirteen guns cracked around the shop, readying to shoot at a moment's notice. It's not like they could kill him, but it was never very pleasant discharging bullets from his body and healing from the wounds. Not to mention Sylar was very fond of the sweater Peter had got him for Christmas, and riddling it with bullet holes would only serve to piss him off further.

*

If asked, Noah would insist that it was this man's horrific actions that had him so wired, but really it infuriated Noah like nothing else to stare down into this killer's visage and see not one shred of fear residing there. It was definitely time to wipe that high-and-mighty look off his face for good...

Restoring his backup, composed demeanour, Noah looked down his nose at his charge with a phony sense of pity. “Surely you don't really think you've been allowed to live this little charade unsupervised, now?” A tiny flicker of emotion rolled over the young man's face. Was it... worry? Or, even better, embarrassment...? “Were you always a workaholic, or is that just part of the act too? Oh how the mighty have fallen... and I thought _my_ life was empty...”

Encouraged by the first, true hint of humility on Sylar's face, Noah trailed past the watchmaker to examine his bench up close. Everything was in its perfect place, organised by size and utility, it seemed. Even the trash can was meticulously tidy, with a carry-out cup of coffee standing neatly in the corner of the bucket and _folded_ bits of paper stacked around it. It was the work of a perfectionist who absolutely needed control in every aspect of his life. And so what happened when someone took away that control? Or when he realised he'd never even had any to begin with...?

Beside him, Noah felt Sylar tense at an outsider's proximity to his possessions, as if terrified that the pristine display might get mixed up. It _was_ tempting... but Noah chose instead to let the agonizing not-knowing eat away at Sylar for a bit longer. He didn't move anything from it's geometric design or place, not even the photographs and drawings that were carefully pinned to the cork board above the bench for easy viewing while working. For a second Noah just gaped at the sketches, his thoughts momentarily de-railed by the two figures proudly displayed over and over again like some crime-fighting duo or the two main heroes of a story...

Then his smile only deepened.

Of course he had got the reports from his team of Sylar's many visits, night time walks and dinner dates with his new best buddy, or whatever the hell it was they were doing together multiple times a week for hours at a time. However, it was only now that he absorbed the display on Sylar's wall – a shrine devoted to his very first, real-live _friendship!_ – that the idea sprang to light... one more kick to the bruise, right?

*

“You're finished, Gabriel. The game is over. Wait until word gets out about what you did today... wait until _Peter_ finds out.”

For the first time since setting eyes on his untimely intruders, real panic rushed through Sylar then. Heart hammering against his ribcage, he forced himself not to get too worked up in the presence of company. Peter wouldn't find out anything... and if Bennet even dared try to go near _Sylar's_ friend...! If he dared try to corrupt him...!

“Until Peter finds out _what_ , exactly? You still haven't told me what it is I supposedly did.” Sylar growled, glaring up warningly under his brow at the company man who wordlessly pulled his phone from his pocket, pushed a few buttons, then slid the device across the workbench.

Sylar's gaze flicked around the anonymous figures flanking Bennet, and he paused with questioningly sarcastic words on his lips, allowing himself more time to think. A witty remark or observation probably wasn't the best course of action for this moment. Did he even want to view what was on that phone...? Not really. But under the circumstances, he supposed he couldn't very well refuse without sacrificing his new favourite sweater. So, hesitantly, Sylar wheeled his chair closer. The screen slowly came into focus as he approached, his limbs suddenly feeling rubbery and his tongue too large for his mouth. He didn't want to see... he didn't want to see the blood, the death, the heartache... but he continued to grow nearer to the video (the news, he soon realised), suddenly unaware of the room full of trained guns pointing at him. All that mattered was that phone and the story that was undoubtedly going to stir up nasty memories of his own...

Or not. There wasn't even a story being broadcast. The weather? What? Confused, Sylar had just about mustered up a fake laugh when the sound died in his throat without ever seeing the light of day. On the screen, the happy, cheery weathergirl with her animated, smiling suns and little umbrellas was interrupted. By a breaking news story prefacing disaster.

Sylar watched numbly, letting it unfold at a glacial pace as his senses whirred and his heartbeat continued to race. The first thing to process was a black sea... tainted and poisoned by the blood of a fallen structure that was still spilling into the water... an oil rig... drenched in thick plumes of smoke and eroding beneath a raging fire that was far from being contained... there had been an explosion... a few miles out... it was evident without the scrolling text along the bottom of the screen that hundreds of people had died here... the emergency services were still arriving at the scene... the roar of the flames echoed into the sky, the screaming of bending metal rang out between the fading, smaller explosions that continued to destroy the remains of the rig... so much death... so much disaster...

With a full-body shiver, Sylar turned his face away. He couldn't bear it, it hurt too much of haunting memories and old, aching scars. It wasn't supposed to be this way... The livevideo feed was silenced and the phone removed, and then it was just Sylar all alone once again in the midst of vicious handlers preparing to collect their prize.

Seconds passed, serenaded by the gentle tick of the clocks that was so out of place in the face of such devastation. It was awful. So many people dead. The calm before the storm had just elapsed. Was this going to change the world? Had something gone wrong along the way? And then – Peter! He would be so horrified when he saw, feel so guilty after “doing nothing” and allowing it to happen... and if Noah got to him –!

Breathing heavily, Sylar rode through the waves of nausea before garnering the strength to lift his eyes and once again meet the ones sitting dully behind those horn-rimmed glasses. Eventually, he croaked his voice out. “You were so quick to blame me... you got here _before_ the story broke?”

“Lets say the company I work for is well connected.”

The company man, father, ex-husband and supposed to be ex-agent glowered down at Sylar with that same, unfaltering smugness – as if he was actually getting enjoyment out of this! Sylar knew that Bennet had made no secret that he was comfortable with “morally-grey” agendas, yet he still didn't look as horrified as he should be by today's destruction. Of course not... because the most important part of the explosion wasn't the many loved ones of the recently dead who were yet to hear the news. It was having the reason to lock Sylar up once and for all.

He didn't have to sit here and take this abuse! Even if he wasn't prepared to kill them all for this, that didn't mean Sylar had to sit idly by and do nothing!

He made as if to lean closer, but with a crisp _snick_ , Noah's gun was back at Sylar's forehead, hovering inches away. “I know this won't kill you. But aside from being therapeutic as hell, it will knock you out cold long enough for us to sedate you.” A devious light glanced off the lens of his glasses, and his lips were still caught in that condescending crescent moon shape. “Sadly I'm bound by company orders not to kill you unless in self-defence. So _please_ , don't come quietly and give me an excuse to shoot you, Gabriel...”

With a sickening jolt in his stomach, Sylar heaved and for a second was certain he was about to throw up. But only rage was regurgitated past his lips. “My name is _SYLAR!_ ”

*

It all happened so fast: an impressive display of the honed reflexes of thirteen professionals and one enhanced superhuman all came into play at once. With an enraged snarl, Sylar shoved Noah back, launched to his feet at an intimidating and menacing height; the weapons in the room roared to life; twelve darts of electricity spat into the evo's chest; and he surged backwards at the impact, falling heavily against his desk and writhing uncontrollably as the currents coursed repeatedly through his body.

“Take him.” Noah commanded, regaining his footing and stowing his own weapon as his team crept around him like water past a rock. He stood, catching his breath after the sudden surge in adrenaline, and watched his enemy tremble and thrash as every ounce of control he thought he had was about to be wrenched away.

At goddammed last. Claire would be so proud of him...

*

Fuck, it hurt! It hurt worse than Sylar remembered. Bullets he was used to, but being caught off guard by twelve million volts of electricity was not something he had been prepared for. His body refused to obey him and he was helpless under the controlling grasp of an outside power, unable to do anything but slump against his now disrupted desk and wish for the agony to fucking end!

He could feel his regeneration struggling to heal him as the venomous current kept biting painfully in a continuous cycle, he knew that his sweater now had twelve holes ripped into the front of it and so was no longer wearable, and over the crackling in his ears and his own grunts of pain, he could distinguish the sound of his nearly-completed, antique wristwatch crashing to the ground and scattering into hundreds of pieces.

It was with the loss of the watch that Sylar regained some power. He growled, fighting the shockwaves and steadying himself against the table, catching his breath in rasping gulps of air.

“Take him! Now!”

Noah Bennet's voice sounded distant and far away, and Sylar finally managed to control his limbs as the last spike of electricity jolted and died. Heaving in lungfuls of air to sooth his aching (but now gratefully healing) body, he allowed his repressed distress to finally spill over, flowing through his veins like glorious nectar. There was no need to hold back in the circumstance of self-defence... it was justified...

*

Shaking, either from anger or aftershocks of the darts, Noah was unsure, Sylar glared at the approaching men with such intensity that they all hesitated. The killer seemed to inflate before their eyes, growing bigger and badder as the moment stretched on, and even Noah found it hard to berate his men for halting in their duties. After another grunt of effort and an outstretched hand from the telekinetic, all twelve of Noah's team members were thrown aside into a heap on the warm, wooden floorboards of the shop, leaving Noah standing alone, outmatched and with no chance in hell of facing the provoked beast and winning.

Until his training kicked in, that was. With a practised arm Noah drew his gun and fired with perfect precision, before he too could join the others on the ground.

*

The _BANG_ was disorientating, but with an old ease that was restored to him in impeccable condition, Sylar met the bullet in mid air – stopping the thing just millimetres from his palm.

He was still struggling for breath, gasping with the effort of exerting his abilities so forcefully after only touching on them again just recently for the first time in weeks. It felt... freeing, actually. Revitalising. And now that he had passed the practice round, he wanted to go for the real ride...

Sylar recalled the gruesome sight and sounds of the destroyed oil rig, the look in Noah's eye and how quickly he had pointed the finger, atop the man's phone call to Peter those weeks ago and his inability to believe Sylar had changed, and suddenly he couldn't contain the hurt or betrayal that was tearing him up inside. His unshaken facade shattered completely, and Sylar expelled all sense of composure from his bones with an angry groan – and with it, the darts from his chest. He rounded his fuming gaze on Noah, and with a flick of his finger wrenched the man's gun from his grasp.

*

Noah's glasses flashed as he looked up into Sylar's glowering face, towering above him now that they were both on level ground. Adrenaline spiking, he took a step back, reaching for the concealed knife in his belt with slightly trembling fingers. NO! He'd _not_ let this monster escape _again!_ Not when he finally had the upper hand, and had got so fucking close at long last...!

“Why couldn't you just LEAVE ME ALONE?!” Sylar bellowed, the distraught, strangled yell succeeding in stroking the right spot of Noah's ego.

“You brought this on yourself, Gabriel.” Noah smirked, grateful for his well-employed demeanour of calmness in times of need such as this. On the outside he displayed a superior mask of a man in control of the situation, while the inside was a very different story. His fingers found the carved handle of the knife... “I know you. I know that _you_ know just as well as I do that you belong in a cage -”

“You _don't_ know me!” The tall figure pounced forward at the exact same moment Noah whipped his knife around... then his whole body was locked in place by an invisible force, and deep, dark, blazing eyes obscured Noah's vision entirely. His stomach dropped. He knew that look too well... it was the expression synonymous with 'Sylar' in his mind's eye, and it meant only one thing: that someone was about to get hurt.

Refusing to go down easily, Noah braced himself for a fight as best as he could within his telekinetic bonds. He ensured to keep a stony expression that managed to filter out most of his terror, and recalled the valuable skill that helped him not to scream during torture. For there was no damn way he was going to give this bastard the satisfaction of dying a coward's death at his hand-!

But then his bearings were scattered by hot breath tickling his face, and he could practically _feel_ the fire in the glassy orbs that danced above his own. “I'm _not_ that person anymore!”

It was barely a whisper, a hiss, but Noah felt every word punch him in his gut. So he wasn't going to die here, after all? It was ridiculous, the thought that Sylar might willingly let him leave and then _still_ dare to insult him with that claim! His skin crawled at such pretence – and even on the slightest possibility that Sylar actually _believed_ what he'd said – deep down it was just another lie. Only this time, it seemed that the master of disguise would have succeeded in fooling himself.

A biting reply worked its way onto Noah's tongue, but before he could summon his voice, he was harshly thrown aside again and tumbled to the ground in a painful heap beside his men. A sharp pain stabbed at his temple, the world went dark momentarily, and there was nothing but a swirling pit of anger, disappointment and a vague sense that he shouldn't be lying here like this when there was a prize-winning stag still out there with his target on its heart...

By the time Noah recovered his senses, replaced his glasses and was helped to his feet by a groaning and grumbling team member, he already knew he was too late.

*

Sylar stumbled to a stop on the street outside, the air cold and nipping at him through his new, holey sweater. It was busy out here, with a fair bit of air traffic too. With yet another uncomfortable lurch of the stomach to add to the already overflowing pile of unease, he averted his gaze from the people flying overhead and forced himself not to think of a particular, dead Senator. There were more important matters to attend to! Like whatever the fuck had just gone down with The Terminator and his crew, for example!

The world was still spinning at least, still continuing as normal. Or as “normal” as “normal” could be, anyway. It seemed bizarre to think that destruction was still unfolding out at sea this very second, so many people had just been wiped from existence, and nobody even really knew yet. It could change everything... Did Peter know already...?

With a constricting heart, Sylar glanced over his shoulder in the direction of his shop. No doubt Bennet and co. would be on his tail any moment, and if they really _were_ keeping tabs on him, then he couldn't even outrun them...

So, despite his promise to his only friend never to do so in public, Sylar kicked off from the pavement and blended in with the other specials commuting through the skies. He had to flee... they'd pointed the finger so quickly, _so quickly_... hundreds of people were dead, he could practically smell the burned blood and charred flesh... the sight of the once proud structure bleeding into the sea along with its victims was going to haunt him for sure...

Unfortunately he knew from history that there was no way Noah Bennet was going to let him fly away and get on with his own business. No, there was a storm coming Sylar's way. A scorned, humiliated and generously funded storm going by a new title, but a familiar one all the same. And Sylar had no idea in hell what he was supposed to do from here.

No idea what he was _supposed_ to do. But as for what he _needed_...? Right now he needed nothing more than to seek reassurance in the only friendly face he knew out of the seven billion on the planet.

*

The shop buzzed angrily around Noah as all twelve of his men were helped up, sheepish and embarrassed after being felled so easily. Noah removed his glasses and dabbed at the cut on his forehead while the others gathered in formation before the second in command, who barked orders to 'get after that motherfucker before he gets too far'...!

The agents scrambled out the shop on cue, leaving Noah behind with only the second in command and the humiliating remnants of the fight that thirteen against one had lost so spectacularly. He heard footsteps approach. “You're not going after 'im, Sir?”

Ah, dammit... Noah lifted his glasses to the light, examining a deep crack running across the left lens. He sighed. “What did I tell you? We're not gonna catch this guy running after him with weapons that aren't even effective. We need a different approach.” He replaced his glasses, blinking past the disorientating artefact on the glass, and turned to survey the mess of the once immaculate shop. He strolled to the workbench, carelessly kicking aside the tools littering the ground around it.

The burn of failure was still stinging nastily through Noah, and he was _not_ looking forward to reporting back to base about this one. Sure, he had tried to explain that they needed a Plan B (or perhaps a Plan C? The bullet to the head _had_ seemed suitable, and would have worked if Noah hadn't been so distracted thinking back to his meeting with Claire that afternoon, he convinced himself) but the higher ups hadn't taken his warnings seriously enough. He cursed them internally, it wasn't like _they'd_ be the ones taking the fall for this. The only comfort was that at least Renautas wasn't aware of precisely how many times this same target had slipped through Noah's fingers in the past, so technically he got a clean slate here. A clean slate that was already marred by his first strike. Son of a bitch.

“Sir? How do we find 'im?”

Noah mulled over his reply, squinting through his distorted lens at the object that had just caught his eye... one of the drawings of Sylar and his new little bestie had come loose from the board during the commotion and was now crumpled on the surface of the bench. The duo, the best pals... Sylar, beside Peter Petrelli: perhaps the first person who had ever put up with him. Defended him. _Liked_ him...?

' _How do we find him...?_ ' Thoughtfully, the company man picked up the paper and straightened out the corners. In this one the super-powered pair were standing facing each other in what looked like a busy corridor, holding hands in the midst of a vague, faceless mass of other people. Whatever the hell was going on with those two (and Noah had his fair share of conspiracy theories about it), one thing was for certain: fucked up or not, they definitely had a connection of sorts.

And Noah had no doubts who Sylar would turn to if something went wrong in the big, bad world...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I hope you liked the update! I wish I could have more than one chapter to post at a time, but this one is really long so hopefully was satisfying enough for now X) Things are definitely going to be heating up in the story now, don't forget about Angela's dream last chapter...
> 
> Again, I can't promise when the next update will be, but I CAN promise that there will be one! Hopefully within the next few weeks ^.^
> 
> (Thank you Zara2148 for the idea about Sylar having the prophetic drawings up on proud display ^.^)


	7. Like Broken Glass

Sylar's whole being was stinging painfully. The fading currents of electricity, the winter's air slapping his face at high speed as he'd flown and Bennet's demoralizing accusations were all rolling tremors through his tense frame. Not to mention he had always hated hospitals.

Thankfully, for an immortal specimen like himself, the building spawned no fear for his own health anymore. It was everyone else, though, that bothered Sylar now. He wound his way quickly through the bustling corridors of Mercy Heights with his head down, determined to both avoid being recognised (no doubt Bennet probably had his face plastered over every news station by now!) and to forego the sight of ill people and the sickly, red substance that he had encountered far too much of in his lifetime.

Quite like a church, Sylar felt, this place was much too virtuous for a defiled being like himself to step foot in. Murderers and villains shouldn't be allowed to walk freely through these corridors where lives were perhaps most sacred and in their most delicate state, a haven for the sick and wounded where the angels and carers would try their honest to god best to save _every_ endangered life that needed them. Sylar suspected, although he tried his best not to entertain the thought, that he'd likely ended more lives single-handedly than any doctor here had saved throughout their entire career. It didn't exactly help to ease today's congealed lump of guilt that was now so heavy it was beginning to bruise. It was so much harder to keep his head above the swirling current of his past when confronted with the stark fragility of mortality, and when reminded of how he had used to thrive in the melody of plucking free threads of life like a harp. Even within this very building.

Sylar tried not to recall his last encounter within these walls but it was impossible once he had roused the thoughts... his venomous intentions to crucify, the crack and agony of steel spikes piercing his skin, the memory of his now best friend's tears as he looked into his dead brother's eyes for the last time...

The hospital was buzzing with an inferno of sound: weeping, yelling and various pieces of machinery squealing off-pitch and out of sync – nothing at all like the meticulous consonance of a quiet watchmaker's shop. Clearly the aftermath of the disaster at sea had caught up to the rest of the world in the time Sylar had finally managed to locate the correct building from the unfamiliar point of view up above. A loud commotion ricochetted off the walls further ahead, and so he followed the flurry of sounds like a man walking willingly to the gallows. He would have preferred to avoid the heart of the storm, but there was only one guess as to where an empathic paramedic would be...

Sylar had no choice. Peter could very well be in danger thanks to his known association with a wanted criminal. For all the amazing things that came with having a friend, the feeling of having an external weakness that could be used to manipulate him was utterly terrifying. It was still new, holding that responsibility for someone else, and Sylar didn't recant his old, ingrained thoughts on the idea: that even if he was always alone, at least it meant nobody could hurt him unless he let them in. It had been an encouraging thought to a destined loner, but Sylar wasn't one anymore.

It was awful to think it, but perhaps maybe a teeny, tiny little benefit of this whole afternoon was Sylar getting the chance to be the acting saviour, the knight in shining armour galloping in to save the damsel (oh, how Peter would _love_ that...!) and riding them both away to safety. And that was exactly his plan here today, minus the helmet, lance and steed of course. It was both thrilling and petrifying to have to be the brave one when it would be so much easier to ask his friend for help in his abused, bashed state, but what good was a rescuer _unless_ they were brave? It was also scary for a much simpler reason – not because this was the first time he'd save Peter, for it wasn't, but because this would be Sylar's first _proper_ good deed since he'd escaped Parkman's prison as a new man. He was now so much more than a solitary vessel that could lift its shields and be practically impervious to outsiders and their weapons. Now he had to protect not only his physical being from harm, but every extension of himself... and if Sylar had to dive right through the vortex of pain and injury to reach him, so be it.

Pain... injury... the oil rig... nausea rolled through him for the dozenth time that day, doubling all the nastiness from earlier. Of course _most_ of it was due to the poor victims of the disaster as he passed them by. But some of it was also due to Noah Bennet's ambush. So someone dies, and everyone automatically assumes it was Sylar, do they?! ...Okay, he deserved it. And it was hardly a change in tune (it was _just_ Bennet's style) but was it really so ridiculous to hope that he'd ever be left to his new life without his past constantly biting at his heels...? Yes. Obviously so.

Sylar huffed loudly through his nose, accidentally causing a passing nurse to jump and send him a wary glance. Hurriedly composing himself, he collected a calm, controlled air instead of publicly losing his head over the incident back at his shop. His anger was ebbing with every passing second, leaving him only feeling pathetically hollow now. As much as he tried to convince himself that it didn't: it _did_ hurt to have been so harshly reminded of the world's perception of him. Idle dreams of saving innocent lives and carving out a place for himself in the hall of heroes were now shattered by the events of this afternoon. Noah didn't have evidence of Sylar doing anything! But that didn't mean he was going to stop pursuing the monster. The determined, resilient and rule-breaking man was not a favourable foe, and Sylar didn't even want to think of what sorts of nasty alternative plans he was most likely cooking up this very second. Currently, Sylar had a head start and the advantage of flight, but he knew from failed past attempts that outrunning a problem was nevera permanent solution.

At best he had a couple of hours before everything was swept up in an unrelenting tornado, casting him back into the familiar, condemned life of an outlaw. No time to rest, no place to call home, no semblance of a normal, balanced routine to speak of... perhaps it was just as well that Sylar excelled at that lifestyle.

His wishes had been granted, alright. Even if it wasn't necessarily what he'd had in mind, and even though it wasn't unfolding in the most opportune of ways, it was pretty safe to assume that the days of hunching over a workbench for hours at a time were soon to be left in the past. One way or another.

Cries and whimpers and barked instructions were growing ever louder with each hurried step that took Sylar deeper down the rabbit hole. Once, he had prided himself in being capable of almost everything: godlike feats and impossible power that no mere mortal could ever dream of possessing! But now... Never had he felt so useless as when walking through this corridor of broken, dying and dead people. He had betrayed them, failed them in their time of need. And he could only imagine how terrible the most sensitive, wrongfully-penitent man on the planet must be feeling right now...

It was with that thought that Sylar held his breath and took the plunge into the packed, bustling chaos of the emergency room.

Like an invisible overseer, he stood apart from the mess that tumbled and weaved its never ending pattern around him. No matter where Sylar looked he was met by gruesome, harrowing sights of mayhem and despair. Doctors, nurses and EMTs swarmed around the stream of too many stretchers that just kept coming, pouring in like a river of bodies being passed from under-staffed hand to under-staffed hand. Civilians who had refused to leave were gathered and crying in the corner, finally given up on by the nurses who had five times their usual workload to attend to and knew their words would make no difference anyway. Multiple TV screens were broadcasting the horror that was now literally seeping into this room, the stench of those flames permeating the air miles from their source.

Thankfully, Sylar caught no mention of himself on the news, and nobody paid him any attention. Although probably that could also be pinned down to there being too many people crammed into the compact space for him to make an impact anyway. They were all rushing, fighting and swaying to do their best to help others through this ordeal... but after watching the scene unfold for a long, tense moment, Sylar discerned that Peter Petrelli was not amongst them.

Once the smell of clothing burned into skin became too sickening, Sylar turned his back on the madness and ducked into the nearest inset off the main room to catch his breath and settle his stomach. How the hell could Peter willingly spend all his time here?! Then again, Sylar thought with another perfectly-timed dollop of guilt, Peter hadn't spent countless hours of his life up to the elbows in warm, flowing blood as victims died slowly at his hand. So it was unlikely that the sights and smells would regurgitate _quite_ the same unpleasant reminders in the little hero as they had the former killer.

Peter. Just think of Peter. Peter who was going to be rescued here today whether he liked it or not, and who was the only thing in this world that could lessen even an ounce of the remorse from Sylar's twisting gut. He had to tell him – he had to _warn_ him before the pursuers got here!

It was only then that Sylar properly took in his new surroundings. It seemed he had conveniently stumbled into an information desk of some sort, which he gladly allowed to encourage him. “Excuse me?” He approached the woman busying herself in a drawer and cleared his throat, but his voice still escaped him a little huskily. “I'm looking for a paramedic who works here: Peter Petrelli? Can you tell me where he is? It's really important that I speak to him.”

As the woman finished up with the drawer, Sylar buried his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking on his feet in agitation. Hopefully he didn't _look_ like a murderer haunted by memories of his past violence. Hopefully he just looked like a normal guy shaken by the goings on around him... Despite himself, Sylar peeked back into the heart of disorder, eyes darting around every person in the vicinity. Still no messy-haired, hazel-eyed Petrelli in sight. In fact, he didn't recognise a single face in the crowd, which only added to his paranoia. Anyone at any time could be working for Bennet or whichever shady figure was signing his cheques nowadays. They could be here already, watching him. They could have already gotten to Peter...

Swallowing his rising fear, Sylar shook himself and turned back to the woman before him. Who hadn't even bothered to acknowledge his existence. “Hey!” Impatient now, he banged his hands too harshly on the desk. “What the hell d'you think “important” means?! I need to – oh! ...Emma!” Caught off guard, Sylar tried to adjust his expression into one of polite surprise when the oblivious woman finally looked up at the trembling desk.

Emma too, like everyone else within this building, was flustered, but her face broke into a pretty smile when she recognised him. “Sylar.” She greeted, and suddenly the man in question felt awful for snapping at her. Now he understood that she hadn't ignored him out of rudeness. Just like Peter had told him far too many times: she _was_ a lovely woman, and Sylar found his smile very quickly became genuine. It was strange, but Emma Coolidge always seemed to exude a sense of calm and trust whenever Sylar met her. Which hadn't been too many times since the carnival, actually, but he was immensely grateful for that ability of hers right now. Not her _ability_ ability, of course. Unless her power actually _did_ have something to do with the pleasant aura that seemed to float around her? Perhaps... The power to draw people in, keep them calm, make them _trust_ you...? To possess that one would be the solution to a lot of Sylar's problems, that was for sure. Wonderfully though, he felt not even the slightest inclination to kill this gentle woman in order to get his hands on such a treasure.

His hammering heart was slowing and for a moment he forgot what had just happened back at his shop. Having a normal interaction with someone who didn't hate him or wasn't out to kill him was a breath of fresh air in an otherwise smothering afternoon. “What are you doing still behind a desk? I thought you were going back to Clown College?” He asked, trying to adjust his stance to come across as casually leaning on the desk instead of having just been caught taking out a tantrum on it.

Emma shrugged her shoulders with a sad, but not self-pitying, smile. “Next year. Hopefully. Until then there's nowhere else I'd rather be.” Of course. Sylar remembered now: she'd applied to medical school and been rejected, Peter had said. Peter had also said not to bring up the topic. Shit. Sylar rocked on the spot, becoming restless and anxious once again now he'd gone and put his foot in it. Thankfully, Emma graciously swooped in with a change in subject. “What can I help you with?” She prompted, signing some words as she spoke.

The sudden reminder of why he was here in the first place nipped harshly at Sylar's conscience. “Uh... Peter.” He repeated, gently this time, suddenly aware of his pronunciation. The way Emma watched his mouth when he spoke made Sylar want to slow down but he knew it was unnecessary, not to mention condescending, to change how he acted with her due to the fact that she was hearing impaired. “Have you seen him? It's really important.”

As Sylar gestured back to the ruckus in the next room, a flicker of sadness caught Emma's features. She leaned around Sylar, but the man kept his feet planted firmly so he wouldn't be tempted to look back again and have yet another ghastly wound or spilled bodily liquid of some sort stamped across his vision as more fuel for his nightmares.

“He was here a minute ago, running all over the place...” Sylar didn't even need to be looking at the scene at his back to read it all clearly on Emma's face. She shook her head, sitting back in her seat. “I'm sorry, it's been crazy here since the... well –”

“It's okay...” Sylar nodded briskly. He didn't need to hear it said aloud. At least Peter was or had recently been nearby, even if he was probably killing himself to tend to as many patients as possible. Sylar shouldn't have been surprised in the slightest, but actually hearing Emma's confirmation made his throat constrict painfully. Who would have thought that one not-so-little explosion miles out at sea could cause such trauma back here...?

Sylar dragged his mind out of the pit it was threatening to wallow in. So what now? He really ought to wait for Peter in the emergency room, he supposed. Time was precious, after all. But he didn't even know how long it would be before the paramedic happened to cross his path. And the watchmaker didn't much fancy the idea of standing face to face with the aftermath of destruction when it was all too real, too close and too horrific instead of this muted sense of distance beside a friendly, non-violent acquaintance...

Bailing out, Sylar rounded the desk and pointed to the drawer Emma had been struggling with before. “You need any help with that?” He waited until he had her attention before speaking, having made that mistake before. “Of course I'm not as highly qualified for the job as you are, but I can try my best...” Sylar's smile faltered a little when Emma's eyes narrowed, blinking at him as though he were crazy. Now _that_ was a look he was used to, although it generally hadn't been deserved for simply volunteering to help with paperwork.

She studied his face for a long moment, and he was certain she was going to call him out on his avoidance. Instead she only wheeled her chair over to make room for him beside her, hiding a subtle, understanding smile. Sylar thankfully dropped to his knees to help with her task, put at ease by her discretion.

Apparently a file had been returned with its pages haphazardly thrown in, and it needed re-arranging and to be placed in the correct section in the drawer. It was rather tedious work, but tedious work was hardly unfamiliar to a watchmaker, after all. And this was decidedly more pleasant than his usual isolated set-up where sometimes he'd go days without speaking to another person. Occasionally the loose end of Emma's earphones would swing into Sylar's line of sight, distracting him, and he felt privileged to be one of the few people to be in on their true meaning. Being included in a secret was still a novelty to this man – that was something that people did with their _friends_ , not that weird Gray kid who sat in the back of the class actually _doing_ the assignment, nor the fearsome Sylar who was clearly evil and had no soul or humanity left to speak of. For the first time, Sylar wondered if Emma wasn't just a friend of his friend... he wondered if maybe she was _his_ friend too? He _had_ saved her life, he certainly enjoyed her company, and she didn't seem to be resenting his. If anything, she seemed to be pleased by his presence, and that simple fact felt... well... unbelievably good.

Chancing a peek at the woman beside him, Sylar saw that she wasn't even looking at him. She wasn't on her guard or wary of his proximity in the slightest. He caught and tamed his smile before it spread further: she was very sweet in a beautifully humble way, and honestly, he could understand why Peter liked her so much. For he knew that Peter _did_ like her. He obviously cared about her enough to have fought endlessly for five years to break free from their prison to save her after all, although he hadn't mentioned her name much since then... Obviously, Sylar wasn't jealous. Just because _he'd_ had only one friend, ever, didn't mean Peter was the same. And he didn't resent the guy's social circle expanding by another person or two, if it really had to. It was just... thought provoking is all.

Sylar allowed stray musings to wriggle into his consciousness as he quietly collected and sorted his papers in alphabetical order. He wondered if Peter even knew Emma that well. As far as he was aware, the pair had only had a few brief conversations... five long years ago. At the time it had been more than Peter had shared with anyone in a long time – but in the grand scheme of things, that was nothing at all to base a friendship around. Some people just _clicked_ , though (not that Sylar would know this first-hand), and the pair seemed to have at least a few traits in common. The hospital, for one thing, good natures, for another... As Sylar had thought himself multiple times already just today: Emma was trustworthy, pretty and kind, and there was nothing for a soft-hearted empath _not_ to like about her.

But did Peter know what foods she hated and what to make her on a bad day? Did he know how close to tiptoe in fights or in play before crossing The Line? Would he scavenge the city for her favourite book if she were to wear out her old copy...?

It was a light pressure, a barely noticeable tingling sensation in his navel, that drew Sylar's head up to peer over the desk the very instant before yet another stretcher was wheeled into the hospital. One that, this time, was followed by a head to toe wave of relief on Sylar's part. Whereas spending time with Emma had been an agreeable distraction, nothing could ever match the unique sensation that always accompanied setting eyes on Peter Petrelli after a prolonged absence.

*

“Hey, it's okay, Jimmy. Look: we're here now -”

“Don't... go...”

“I'm not going anywhere, I'm right here, okay, buddy? I'll be right here until the nurses come to get you. They're gonna take real good care of you, alright?” Peter rested a badly shaking hand on his patient's non-wounded shoulder, being careful not to be painful or heavy, but merely a comforting presence. By some miracle his voice came out steady, and he even managed a reassuring smile when Jimmy's dazed, bloodshot eyes found his face.

“Al... alright...” Jimmy wheezed, trusting the professional with everything he had. His face scrunched up in pain behind his oxygen mask, and while it was unpleasant to watch him be in discomfort, Peter knew that Jimmy was one of the lucky ones. Thankfully he had gotten away with mostly smoke-inhalation rather than the life-threatening burns that covered almost every other survivor recovered so far. “My... my frien...ds...”

“Hey, they're gonna be fine, alright? You need to concentrate on _you_ for now, Jimmy. Can you do that for me?” Peter gently squeezed the ageing man's shoulder as his heart hammered painfully, knowing that it could well be minutes before a nurse came to retrieve this stretcher at the rate things were going in here.

“I r...ran with them... too hot... I got lost...”

“I know, I know, you told me, remember? It's okay. Just relax, we've got a great team out there. Your friends are gonna be fine...” Peter insisted, although he knew it wasn't true. He knew that amongst the group of people discovered in that section of the rig, Jimmy had been the only survivor.

He continued to soothe his patient, hoping to come across as encouraging and sturdy on the outside, while internally he was collapsing in on himself. With every assertion and false reassurance, his very foundations crumbled and shook at such deception. How the fuck had he used to do this?! He'd been fooling himself thinking he was getting better at work! Really, the sad truth had finally come to light: he was only a useless, bumbling fool playing at doctor – for in the face of this emergency, the first full-scale one since his return to reality, Peter felt his training and old instincts trickling away like water through his fingers. He _should_ have been helping the most when so many patients needed his medical care, but instead he had only come to realise just how much he couldn't do anymore. He was out of sync, just couldn't remember how it all should work: he _knew_ the protocol, but somehow it just refused to be put into practice, no matter how hard he tried.

There was nothing he could do for Jimmy, for Elizabeth, for Ian or all the others and their burns and gaping wounds. While flight had been the perfect ability to have in order to get to the site of the accident as soon as the call had come in, it was no help whatsoever _now_. Peter's only tools for this trade were hollow words and false hope, a lie to postpone the inevitable moment when Jimmy would come to hear that wait, sorry, none of his friends had made it home from work after all.

Peter was supposed to be a hero, but what good was that when all he could do was lie to these poor people in the most terrifying moments of their lives while their whole world and body had been blown to hell...?

*

The sight of him alone made Sylar's chest ache. Even from the other side of the room, he knew exactly what his friend was experiencing in that moment. He could read it from his body language, the tension in his back and the way his movements were weighted and careful as he fussed over an older black man on a stretcher. Pleas for help practically wafted from his smaller frame, and Sylar knew he was the only person who could answer the call.

The initial relief at finding his ally hadn't faded in the slightest, but it was marred by even more guilt. With one glance he could see just how heavily this scenario was impacting the easily-bruised empath. Peter was deathly pale, his face glistening with perspiration and featuring dark shadows around his eyes. He was covered in soot, dust and other people's blood, and by the looks of him he hadn't slept in a week – however, he stood strongly and sturdily, braving his way through the day like always. Sylar knew Peter had been having trouble sleeping in the bustling noise of the city and that he was finding each day a challenge amongst the chaos of New York, yet still he got up bright and early, day after day, and poured his soul into this place... He was a strong little man, that was for sure.

Although the gruesome sight of Peter's bloodstained appearance was on par with the others he'd seen in this place so far, Sylar clambered up from behind Emma's desk, signalled his departure and let his feet carry him across the dreaded room he'd been so pointedly avoiding. Somehow it wasn't as difficult to venture forth into the noisy, pungent sea when he had a trustworthy beacon to guide him onwards.

*

“We'll take him from here...”

The loud voice by Peter's ear startled him, but he quickly recovered himself enough to aid the two nurses in getting Jimmy's stretcher rolling down the corridor. Breathing heavily, he gripped the bar of the bed with white knuckles until he was dismissed, then watched the poor guy's face until he was wheeled out of sight. Then, and only then, Peter finally succumbed to the pins and needles numbing his limbs and backed into the nearest wall, hiding from sight behind the slight cover of a medical shelving unit.

He peeled off and disposed of his soiled gloves before rubbing a hand over his face. Shit... it didn't used to be so difficult. He felt physically drained to the point of collapse, traumatised by the scene at the rig and haunted by the smell of burned flesh that would surely linger in his senses forever. It just kept going. It was all so noisy, so brash, so constant, and Peter hadn't stopped moving for one second since taking to the skies in the direction of the ocean. Fuck – so many people had died today for no reason, and he couldn't even help the ones who hadn't!

Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, Peter let his throbbing eyelids slide closed for a brief, vital, ten second respite – and that was all the time he would allow himself. Images danced against the pulsing darkness and his aching eyes stung from exhaustion alone and it would be _so_ easy to slide to the floor right here and now and wish to disappear from it all... so easy... he was so small anyway, so helpless, just a nuisance really... maybe it would be best for everyone if he were to just stay out the way...?

Suddenly, with a lurch of his heart, Peter knew he'd been caught hiding. It should have been another mound of stress to add to the overspill, but instead – with a wondrous, spine-tingling shiver – he felt the lid of his internal pressure valve lift before his observer need even speak a word.

“Just look at you...”

Peter's eyes snapped open and he hauled himself off the wall, clearing his throat and extending a hand. “Sylar...” He coughed, allowing that significant face to settle the hysteria thriving within him like water over a fire. Thank god... someone who understood... someone who he didn't have to pretend with... It felt like months since he'd last seen this man, but at the same time only minutes, and Peter doubted he'd ever been more relieved to see the figure who had used to haunt his nightmares in a different life. Everything: from the black, pointy-toed shoes (the very same ones he'd worn throughout the duration of their shared sentence, Peter was certain) to the fact that this morning he had willingly picked out the sweater Peter had got him, was comforting. And the empath wouldn't have been able to refrain from touching even if he'd wanted to.

He grabbed onto Sylar's sleeve the second they met, squeezing gently into the crook of his elbow. Just that simple indulgence that Sylar always allowed him was enough to unwind a great deal of the lead knot that used to be his internal organs.

*

“The explosion! I was there! I was one of the first people on scene... God, Sylar it was awful...” Peter gushed, his large eyes darting around the corridor for any eavesdroppers. From afar, he could possibly have seemed like just an average, tired paramedic... if he wasn't clinging onto Sylar as if his life depended on it.

The poor guy looked even worse up close: driven to the point of tears, all worked up and trembling, hair limp from all the times he'd brushed it back and eyes shadowed from lack of rest. A fresh surge of sympathy roared to life within Sylar at the sight of Peter's tired visage and hollowed cheeks, and the knowledge that he'd inadvertently walked in on him while he was trying to catch a second of much needed time out. He wanted to say something encouraging to lighten Peter's burden, but not if it meant he'd be lying.

“I know...” He struggled to voice the next part, the worst part, but the silence was filled before he even had much time to hesitate.

“There were so many of them... those people... and I couldn't – couldn't _do_ anything!” The little man continued to knead Sylar's elbow with his fingers, playing him in a tune that eased them both ever so slightly. He'd looked so proficient when tending to that guy on the stretcher before, his true anguish only visible because Sylar knew everything about him. But now that these words were finally tumbling forth from his heavily-bitten lips, withheld distress was beginning to brim along his lashes.

Peter didn't even seem to care why Sylar had randomly turned up at his work in the middle of the afternoon – he was just grateful to see him, it seemed. The watchmaker hid his sizzling emotion from his face, dreading stomping all over his friend's temporary solace with the nasty issue of Noah Bennet. If Sylar wasn't fully aware that the youngest Petrelli member was much hardier than he looked, he would have feared that the news would have physically defeated his fatigued body. No, it was the emotional side he had to worry about. He didn't even know how to put it all into words.

So instead, Sylar stuck to his earlier plan and did the only thing he knew he could to help his friend in this moment. He clutched for Peter's free hand and grasped it tightly, comfortingly, despairing at the cold, clammy skin of his companion. “Use regeneration.” He urged matter-of-factly, as if it was only a suggested pick-me-up and not a desperately needed lifeline.

Peter's eyes widened, his slight confusion at the sudden touch clearing up instantly. “Hey – hey that's brilliant!” He enthused, cradling Sylar's hand in both of his own before closing his eyes in concentration, unspooling the ability from within Sylar and feeding it into himself.

The pair stood facing each other in the busy corridor, holding hands in the midst of the vague mass of other people while the subtle golden light caressed their touching skin.

Sylar breathed more easily as he witnessed colour rush into Peter's cheeks, the darkness around his eyes fade, and warmth flood the man's skin. Good. Now he could go another few weeks in the state he liked to run himself before needing another sip of the elixir of life.

Peter let out a gruff gasp at the sensation, then didn't hesitate for even a second to appreciate his now impeccable health. In an instant his hands were gone from Sylar's, he swiped up something from the medical shelves beside them, and then he was stalking down the corridor with his usual bandy-legged gait and a second lease of life that was evidentially going to be put to good use. Perturbed, Sylar hurried to catch up.

*

“Wait – Peter...!”

Peter checked to see his friend was following, but never slowed in his new mission. There were still too many victims per staff member, and so too many stretchers just sitting about until someone got a second to see to them. He allowed himself only two seconds to decide on his destination before heading directly to the nearest victim – a kid who must've been no older than twenty, and who was disfigured by a fresh, raw burn that tore all down the right side of his face.

“I need to talk to you...” Sylar interjected at his back, but Peter didn't reply while he summoned the courage to continue his current, and probably not very smart, plan. Everyone else was definitely too busy and distracted to notice what he was doing, but that wasn't even the reason for his pause.

Steadily, he readied his newly-recovered scalpel. Ever since his journey to the future he'd tended to avoid such tools and the unpleasant associations with torture and his own beloved niece. Even now he was hesitant, drawing back on Claire's visit that afternoon and how fast she was growing up... but this wasn't about him. Or Claire. Pushing on through the fear, Peter lofted the scalpel and sliced it down the length of his palm. The blade burned and he groaned, trying not to remember that same pain carving his chest, then quickly got to work before the wound could start to heal.

Disobeying one of the most important rules drummed into him on the job, Peter pressed his open wound onto the broken skin of the young man and allowed his blood to transfer between them. Please work... please work... he wasn't even sure if this was an effective way to perform the transfusion, but under the circumstances it was the best he could do.

*

Momentarily, Sylar forgot about the importance of what he had to tell Peter. He watched in silence, both curious and appalled by what the guy had just done... until the injured kid moaned, shuffled slightly on his stretcher and the burn on his face microscopically – but _noticeably –_ began to repair itself.

Peter let out a triumphant breath of relief beside him, and before Sylar could even get another word out – he was off again. It was oddly intriguing to watch the paramedic hop around more waiting victims, calling the conscious ones all by name and slicing his veins open for them all again and again without hesitation. Sylar tailed him silently, watching the diluted, third generation repairing blood take effect at each bedside Peter visited. It was humbling to observe such diligence, selfless in a way that Sylar knew he had never been himself.

He had never seen Peter at work before. He had seen him _work_ of course, five years alone was bound to result in some breaks and bruises (some accidental, most intentional), but _being_ the patient and _watching_ the patient were very different experiences, Sylar quickly realised. It took until Peter's sleeve was stained red and dripping that the primary emotion sitting inside his chest finally confessed it's name to the ex-villain... pride. He was immensely proud of _his_ friend, _his_ Peter, Peter the healer, Peter the hero who put so much into the world and expected nothing whatsoever in return.

Everyone thought of Peter Petrelli as the gentle, doe-eyed dreamer who had never done anything worthwhile in his life. Sylar suspected that Angela was no where near as proud of her own son as he was of his comrade, he was pretty certain that Noah Bennet thought of him as pliable and weak, and knew from memory that even Nathan had only seen a kid brother who always tried too hard and failed miserably in every task he undertook. None of them knew the real Peter. They never even bothered to look past their false perceptions and see that, really, he might just outshine all their expectations.

Nobody else seemed to realise how precious he was, how _unique_. A “hero” like The Miracle Girl could pose for pictures and shake a few hands to get all the praise and adoration that her stupid, blind fans could possibly throw at her. But in Sylar's opinion, the most admirable deed was one committed not for fame and glory – but for no personal gain at all. It was why the concept of “heroes” had always evaded him, why the idea of that title still daunted him so, as tantalising as it was. All he could do was have faith in his capacity to ever really be so brave when the time came for _him_ to prove himself.

Apparently nobody else but Peter would share this faith with him, if today alone was any indication. Already they were lining up with their rotten vegetables and pitchforks and, of course, the first in line of the opposition was none other than ol' Horn Rimmed Glasses, himself.

*

“Peter, please, you need to listen to me...”

Shit. The blood wasn't working as well as it did on Claire, or Sylar, or even himself, and it was a fraction of the effect that Peter had once watched a pure batch of the stuff have on his brother's burned and distorted face – but at least it was doing _something_. Once more he pierced his skin with the sharp blade, then clasped a hand over an open gash in an unconscious patient's chest. He waited for only a second, long enough to see the man rouse just slightly, before wielding the scalpel again and moving on to the next stretcher, the next charge, his next duty -

But before he could reach it, he was tugged back roughly. “Peter!” Disgruntled by the jostle, Peter finally shook himself out of his tunnel vision enough to meet his friend's wild, worried eyes. “We have to leave.” Sylar stated, the words sharply jabbing Peter's already aching cranium.

*

“What? Why? What're you talking about...?” The look on the guy's face burned another mark on Sylar's conscience. He looked so startled, so horrified, as if Sylar had just said the most terrible thing in the world. Oh, if he only knew.

Sylar raked his fingers through his hair, gathering courage, and launched into the tale in one breath. “I just got a visit from Bennet and his merry men.” Confused, Peter blinked as Sylar brandished his arms in frustration. All of the insult and anger he'd managed to forget rushed back all at once, tripping up his tongue. “He's saying... he's saying that _I_ did this – the oil rig – he tried to take me in, he _shot_ me with darts! I managed to get away but he said he's been tracking us!” If it was possible for words to ring out while subsequently being swallowed by the surrounding ruckus, Sylar would swear it happened when he next spoke. “And that means he's going to come after me... and, and you too.”

Like ripping a band aid off too soon, too harshly, and waiting for the deceptively “healed” wound to start bleeding again, he watched anxiously as Peter took his time to catch up with the full scale of Sylar's statement.

“What?” A shadow of a frown marred the empath's brow. “Wait _what? Noah_ Bennet?!” He narrowed his eyes as he tried to process the information.

“Yes, Noah Bennet! How many trigger-happy has beens do we know?”

“Hold on – Noah came to your shop claiming you -” Then Peter choked off as the full scale of the issue finally seemed to wallop the air from his body. “...All those people...?” He whispered, impassioned eyes shining again. Sylar couldn't bring himself to do anything other than affirm Peter's fear with a nod of his head. “B... but why's he saying it was -”

“Why d'you think? Because he wants an excuse to take me down!” Fearing rejection or a full-blown meltdown, Sylar grabbed onto the smaller man's arm, forgetting about the bloody sleeve until he felt it hot and wet underhand. For some reason, it didn't disgust him quite as much as the blood of everyone else in this place did, and he found it reasonably easy to ignore in order to aid his friend as the guy's fears cascaded around him.

*

Things were all moving too slowly now, as if the hectic speed of the day so far was now being contrasted out of spite. Wasn't one major disaster enough for one day? Did it really have to get worse...? Sylar's words were still formatting inside Peter's head when the watchmaker continued, his fingers five throbbing pads of consolation. “We have to run, Peter. We have to leave this pretence of life behind us before they catch us!”

“...They...?”

Sylar sighed, as if catching a slip-up too late. “Yes. Bennet mentioned something about a new company -”

Peter's stomach only plummeted further. “Renautas... yeah...” He hissed, letting it all hit home, clunky and sore. 'All legal'?! 'Help evos integrate into the world'...?! Total bullshit. Noah was just up to his usual tricks, hiding behind the safety of a false corporation, a public mask for the deeds they were _really_ committing behind the scenes! Even if it was under the guise of “helping people”, since when was ambushing an... an _evo_ and shooting them with darts for no reason 'legal'? Which then opened the prospect of Renautas – corrupt after all? Primatech would be child's play in comparison to this new, secret company who had feelers extended to almost every corner of the Earth already. And what about _Claire_...! Who had just skipped off to them today, naïve and hopeful about her new job...

Suddenly, Peter realised he wasn't breathing. For all he knew, maybe it was only the regeneration that was keeping him standing. Sylar's hand on his arm was the only anchor to the present moment, otherwise Peter would have easily thought he was slipping down the familiar path of his reoccurring nightmares.

“But why would Renautas frame you? Why now?” He croaked, kicking himself back into gear and fixing his head on straight for the reality of the situation. So far, the cause of the rig's collapse hadn't been determined, and with a sinking feeling, Peter suspected that it wasn't going to be a natural accident. Even if that was to be the choice story fed to the public.

*

It was still as wonderful as the first time. That trust. Peter's absolute certainty in him. The usual struggle with how to compose those feelings battled within Sylar, but now was not the most opportune time to dwell on them. Not when both he and his only friend were still standing here out in the open as wanted men.

Casting a glance around them, Sylar started backing out of the emergency room, tugging a conceding Peter along gently by his wrist. “I don't know.” He said bluntly, forcing his steady voice not to betray him. “But Bennet could be here any minute. He could use you to get to me, so we have to get out of here before -”

Rather too harshly, Peter pulled his arm free, staggering a little. “I can't _leave_!” He exclaimed as it finally sank in, looking around the chaos that was still flowing fully through the building. Fuck, Sylar knew that look. It always preceded a lost cause on his end. “I have to _help_ these people!” Spurned on by his own words, Peter hastily got back to work, shedding his blood again with no reservations.

“Let the doctors take care of them -”

Peter moved on from a whimpering young woman to the next unattended stretcher. “The doctors can only do so much!” He confessed, keeping his voice low likely out of respect for his co-workers. “At best, all these people will be scarred for life – that's _if_ they even survive! But a few drops of my blood can stop that from happening!” Another victim was wheeled past, this time crowded by hustling staff members. Sylar averted his eyes once he caught a glimpse of the charred, bark-like scales shrouding the arm of the patient – the worst so far – but not before he saw Peter clasp the hand in passing. And if Sylar wasn't mistaken, the burn looked a little less severe when he chanced a peek after the retreating stretcher. “The moment they leave this spot, I've lost them.” Peter said, burning his defiant gaze directly into Sylar's. “If I run away now, someone might needlessly die, or someone who will be disabled for life _could_ have fully recovered if I'd had five seconds with them!”

Well, shit. Of course that was going to be affective. There was no way for Sylar to demand or force Peter to leave now without aiding in the disastrous fates of innumerable people, and god knows he'd done enough of that already. It was emotional manipulation, in its purest form, true, yet still Sylar resented it. It wasn't fair, he hated the way he would now come across as heartless and selfish for simply trying to preserve himself and the only other important thing in his life. So much for a knight in shining armour.

Here he was, stumped for the countless time by this little Petrelli's obsessive need to never run away from a mission he'd devoted himself to! Peter's obstinate nature really was a trait that Sylar admired... but not in these times when it came back around to bite him.

“Fine. Stay here. But what're you going to do when Bennet comes for you? Huh? Throw a stethoscope at him?” He snapped, a mess of guilt and worry and endearment twisting together inside of him, spilling forth in the backwards facade of condescension. This was _not_ how rescue missions were supposed to go!

“How about I tell him what I think of him...?” Peter mumbled, busying himself over another abandoned stretcher. Sylar trailed him from just an inch away, suddenly very aware of every millimetre of distance in this huge, over-populated world.

“Don't be so idiotic, Peter.” Sylar knew that _he'd_ be alright. He could more than look after himself if need be, and really he pitied whoever tried to confront him down a dark alley. But nobody would ever notice someone dragging this little man off in the midst of all this hubbub and the thought turned Sylar's insides to ice. He wished he could properly emote his concern, but under the strain of everything going on at once, he found it so much easier to just mask his fear with derision. “I know more than anyone how dangerously ignorant you are, but do you _really_ think you can outmatch this – this _Renautas_ thing...?!”

*

Peter allowed the provocation to wash over him and roll down his shoulders without leaving a mark. It wasn't particularly nice to endure, but he was well aware that Sylar's antagonising was really just care. It was touching that his friend was worried enough about him to get into such a state, but Peter knew he couldn't turn his back on his current duty here to run off into the sunset while things were still so far from _okay_.

Now settled into the routine of these unconventional transfusions, Peter found his body working almost on autopilot while his mind continued to sway dizzyingly. It was all far too much to absorb in such a short time, but he somehow managed to muster up an only slightly-transparent semblance of calm. Pausing in his administrations, Peter tore his attention from the woman's wrist under his hand to lock eyes with Sylar's bright, exasperated eyes. “He can't hurt me. Alright? Not with this power.”

“Actually he can. He can shoot you in the head long enough to sedate you, apparently. He was very specific about that.”

Peter bristled a little at that knowledge. He supposed it was true, and the ramifications of that weren't very encouraging. Releasing an irritated sigh, Peter shook his hair out of his eyes and moved on to the next patient. Sylar followed obediently, right up in his face like he always was when riled up. “Noah's not gonna charge in here and shoot me in the head in the middle of the emergency room.” Peter stated from beneath raised eyebrows, hoping it was true.

For just an instant, there was a flicker of a disobedient laugh at the corner of Sylar's mouth. But then it was forcefully shoved back in light of stronger, more raw aggravation. And more than a little hurt. “So what's you plan then? What about me? What do _I_ do while you're running around here playing Florence Nightingale? Or don't you care?”

“Of course I do!” Peter sighed again, stretched-out and stressed and drowning under so much responsibility. Sure, Sylar was Peter's source of reassurance. But Peter was also Sylar's. Long ago they'd learned to both depend on the other, and to deal with the consequences of having to hold each other up rather than to lean all one's weight into a single, crumbling tower of stability. It seemed that Peter's turn of being looked after had run its course for the evening, and while he was currently in no state whatsoever to be making important decisions, he knew that Sylar badly needed that from him right now. “Listen: go back to my place, wait for me there. I dunno when I'll be done but I'll try to get back to you as soon as I can, alright?”

Sylar actually snorted. “Back to your place? Right. You mean the most obvious hiding place in the entire world...? That's a good one -”

“Well I dunno!” Peter finally cracked, rounding on his friend in annoyance and swiping his hair out of his eyes before remembering his hands weren't exactly clean. “I don't have a plan here, Sylar! I'm just trying to do as much as I can, _when_ I can. What d' _you_ suggest...?”

Sylar's lack of response wasn't entirely useful.

Trying in vain to wipe his hands clean on his uniform, Peter shouldered his way past the taller man and stubbornly continued in his plight. It might be unorthodox, but for the first time since starting back at work, Peter finally felt _useful_. Fuck protocol – bleeding into other people might be messy and clumsy and wrong on so many levels, but at least it was _doing_ something productive! He wouldn't stop Sylar leaving if he wanted, but Peter wouldn't. He _couldn't_. Not when every single second and every single drop of blood could save someone's life.

Of course he understood Sylar's worry (and of course he was worried about the guy too), but everyone who knew the former killer was well aware that he wouldn't be taken down easily. He was the Strong One, the Resilient One, the one who nobody had ever managed to hold for long, at least on the outside. Yes, he was rightfully frightened, and Peter ached to be able to help everyone at once... but it just wasn't feasible. The choice was not one he wanted to dwell on, but when stripped back to the simple fact of the matter: Sylar would be alright for a few hours more, Peter was sure. But these people on the other hand... he physically couldn't drag himself away from them. Let Noah come if he had to, because Peter could even use the opportunity to call him out on a few things anyway...

*

Sylar had known from the second that spark had flashed in Peter's hazel irises that he was going to lose this argument. That didn't make it any easier to accept though. He watched miserably as Peter Petrelli soared around his patients like an angel gifting life, reading from him the underlying fear and shame that the man refused to spit out into the open. Under any other circumstance, Sylar would have been inclined to feel abandoned after trying to do something noble. Except this time, while angry, he honestly couldn't fault the guy for wanting to do everything he could after witnessing the horror of the explosion. It wasn't that Peter had chosen _them_ over _him_ , of that Sylar had no doubt, because Peter _never_ chose one person over the other – instead his care was constantly flowing out of multiple outlets at once, just in varying degrees of volume. It was an enviable skill, one Sylar was yet to come across in anyone else. However, it was also rather inopportune, such as in this particular circumstance when the primary outlet was not pointing in _his_ direction.

Grudgingly, he was forced to accept that there was nothing he could do or say to get his friend out of this building, save telekinetically carrying him through the air, kicking and screaming. Sylar toyed briefly with the thought, just for the fun of it, to knock Peter down a peg or two after so easily winning their disagreement and shrugging off Sylar's valiant attempt to rescue him. But it would only be a petty means to assert himself.

His blood was still burning as it thumped through his veins, pulse elevated by the palpable pressure of the day's events. It was tempting to blatantly refuse to calm down, refuse to happily dance off and await the other man at his apartment like some lovesick pet or housewife. Normally at this stage of an argument, Sylar would storm away to lick his wounds while Peter fermented, both men unwilling to admit defeat until later. Normally Sylar would walk out without a backwards glance, sticking to his guns for the whole hog. But this time, there was so much more at stake than two men's fragile egos.

“Peter?” He called after the other man, annoyed to hear it sound a little whiny. To his credit, the paramedic did look back, and Sylar noticed the very moment his defences lowered in the absence of direct conflict. “...Get home safe.” With those words all the hot air flowed from him, deflating his anger into disgruntled compliance.

Peter's eyes softened and he nodded, both accepting and returning the words in the same motion. Damn it, Sylar always hated leaving him. Even when there wasn't the danger of an unknown Company thrown into the mix. He could _feel_ the same thought radiating his way from the other man, which was at least a little comfort in the wake of his epic fail. Sylar hadn't thought this _heroic_ plan through properly, clearly, and until now he hadn't even entertained the thought that he'd have to leave this hospital without Peter. What if Bennet _did_ come for him? Or something worse happened? It couldn't bear thinking about. At least Peter's track record of annoyingly bouncing back from any obstacle Sylar threw at him was something of a reassurance. This wasn't exactly his first rodeo.

For a prolonged second the two men stood entangled by the unspoken words tainting their gaze, until yet another wash of wounded bodies were wheeled into the room, severing the silent conversation. With only a slight hesitance, Peter turned and disappeared into the throng of the commotion, leaving Sylar alone once again in the depths of this human tide.

He quickly fled the pungent, crowded place, caught Emma's small smile on the way out, and stomped his way to the fateful rooftop of Mercy Heights hospital. 'Go to my place' – please! That would certainly be the first place Bennet would look for them. It was probably bugged by now – no – probably had been for weeks already! The thought sickened Sylar as he climbed the stairs on legs that steadily lost feeling. Surely it would be asking for trouble to hide out there for god knows how long before Peter finally pried himself free from his beloved work and came home what could be days from now...?

The rooftop was exactly the same as the last time he'd stood here. As Nathan. Chills rolled down his spine at the recollection, and he wielded his irritation at Peter against the painful other feelings that were nagging at him. The air was crisp and cool, the most beautiful substance in the world in the wake of the stuffy corridors downstairs, and Sylar drank it in gladly as he considered his exit strategy, trying to put his intelligence to good use here.

The smart thing to do... would be to disappear right now. Before anyone could get a handle on him. He used to do it, and in fact: in the old days, Sylar would've been long gone by now. This stupid 'rescue attempt' had only endangered him more and wasted so much time that could have been spent escaping! This was _exactly_ why Sylar had no friends! So they couldn't hold him back and possibly get him killed – or as close to killed as he ever could be.

His survival instinct was screaming, begging, persuading him to just cut his losses and run now while he still had the chance...! Instead, he lifted off into the sky and willingly set out across the skyscrapers for the world's dumbest hideout (and probably his own capture). Because Sylar, the master of disguise, the immortal man, the famous Houdini, would rather gamble with his freedom than run away without Peter.

 

***

 

He lost track of time. Hours or minutes could have passed in the constant whirlwind of disaster, and all Peter could do was try not to dwell on Sylar, or Renautas, or an unforeseen bullet to the brain while immersing himself fully in his duties to the best of his... ability.

He was so deep in concentration (trying his best to settle Mr and Mr Mills so he could subtly hold onto the couple's hands long enough for his blood to take effect) that the sound of a non-injured voice calling from nearby caught him completely off guard.

“Talk about a busy day at the office, right?”

Peter jumped around on defence, heart leaping into his throat and absolutely anticipating a full-on ambush in the midst of countless witnesses despite the line he'd span for Sylar earlier. But instead he was only greeted by a hot plastic cup being pressed into his palm and an amicable clap to the shoulder. Too late, Peter tried to downplay his startled reaction. “Hey, man.” He acknowledged, forcing a grateful smile in response to his work partner's kind gesture. He hadn't seen him since the call had come in for the rig and they'd been divided by the hectic schedule.

“When d'you last eat?” Hesam asked, taking a swig from a matching cup of his own. Avoiding the question, Peter turned back to Mr and Mr Mills, only to see their stretchers had finally been recovered. And that the gashes on their skin were fading around the edges. Thank god. “I'm serious, Pete. You need to take a second to chill.”

Hesam's eyes on his face drew Peter's awareness tightly back onto himself for the first time in what felt like hours. However, a quick glance at the clock on the wall revealed that it had barely been thirty minutes since Sylar had left. Christ, it was going to be a _long_ day...

“I'm fine.” Peter insisted. True, his physical ailments were no longer an issue, yet now that the evasive caffeinated substance he'd been craving all day was finally within his clutches, it couldn't harm to take a few seconds to enjoy it, right? Technically speaking, they weren't supposed to drink on the job – but Peter needed the coffee and couldn't afford a proper break, and so drinking it as quickly as possible would have to suffice. “Thanks, though.” He added, gratefully glugging the scalding liquid with only a slight wince at the pain that tore at his tongue and throat before regeneration kicked in.

*

Despite the shit show of a day, and having far from a reason to laugh, Hesam couldn't help but find it amusing to witness yet another of these weird little things that Peter Petrelli could always somehow get away with but nobody else could... His own coffee was barely cool enough to sip, and the tingling on his palm told him that Peter's was definitely the same temperature, if not hotter. Yet here he was, downing the drink as easily as if it were water.

At least the guy didn't look like death warmed up anymore. In fact, he suddenly looked as if he'd impossibly slept three weeks in the half hour since Hesam had last caught sight of him in passing in the corridor. That, there, was another of those unexplainable mysteries about Peter: like that humble smile that held a thousand secrets; like how he could work so many shifts in a row without collapsing; like how he had somehow got to the oil rig ahead of everyone else although they'd left at the same time and he hadn't been in any of the vehicles...

Eyes roaming over his partner now, Hesam tried not to look as concerned as he was. Peter was covered in far more blood and gore than he should have been, and Hesam knew for sure he'd skipped out on all his breaks – even before that rig had exploded. A coffee was the least he could provide, easier (apparently) to swallow than advice or probing questions that never did any good anyway. And so coffee had been his chosen olive branch, a brief exemption for the floundering man who might be in need of it.

Any fool could see that Pete hadn't been the same these past few weeks. You didn't need to be his partner on call to witness it. Something had clicked within the man, something had changed... or rather, the _world_ had changed and suddenly Peter's was thrown up into disrepair.

Hesam was about ninety five percent sure that Peter was an evo. Of course, he hadn't voiced this aloud. He didn't condone the people who were ratting out their friends for their fifteen seconds of fame or whatever, and it didn't even matter to him. When it all came down to it: Pete was Pete, no matter what species of human that happened to be. It would make _so_ much sense if Peter had a superpower though, answer _so_ many open questions and tie up those loose ends that had driven Hesam mad over all the time he'd known the man. He had _always_ had a secret life on the side, and now the Iranian finally had his suspected explanation to all these secrets: Peter's odd behaviour since Claire Bennet (the guy's _niece_ of all people!) had revealed evolved humans to the world; his association with his brother's shooting and miraculous recovery; his public, news-worthy disappearance after the “comet” incident above the city a few years back... the few, lengthy absences over the years were all taking on a new meaning under this now unobstructed gaze.

Hesam watched as Peter finished the final dregs of his coffee within twenty seconds of his first sip, then coughed and wiped his mouth on a sporadic clean patch of his bloody sleeve. Any other time, Hesam might have been tempted to quiz the other man about his miraculous devouring of a freshly-brewed beverage, but now was not the time for it. Jokes and teasing were laden today, held down beneath the weight of the crisis at sea that was _still_ ongoing through this building like a stampede.

And so he just patted Peter's shoulder again, a quiet, understanding sign of comradery. There was no question that Peter was going to dive right back into the thick of things, but unlike him, Hesam wasn't gifted with the resilience of a thousand men. His very _normal_ , human form needed a rest now and then before continuing with this job that he loved. He would have liked to invite Peter to the cafeteria with him, but when had that offer ever been taken up on?

Heading to set off, Hesam flashed a consoling smile. “Take it easy alright, man?”

*

Peter caught the last drop of hot coffee as it ran down the centre of his lip, feeling the burn shrink instantly in its wake. “You've got this.” Hesam added. “There's nobody else here does a better job than you.”

It was either the caffeine, the kindness, or simply the light human touch that did it, but suddenly Peter felt much more equipped to face the rest of the day. Somehow he could breathe deeper, stand up straighter, and if he stretched far enough his fingertips could scramble at both sides of the gaping crevice within his sanity. It was something as small as a few short words with a co-worker that reminded the empath that he really _wasn't_ alone here. He wasn't the only person trying to save lives, even if his blood was (probably) the only thing here that could reverse the damage done to them.

The deep, murky waters began to ebb away, and Peter felt himself flush under the praise of another. Praise that was always a treasured rarity, but he couldn't begin to express how much Hesam's words meant to him right then, when he had needed them most. Peter smiled in return, a genuinely thankful gesture the likes of which he hadn't felt in what felt like far too long (had it _really_ only been this morning when Claire had visited and he'd actually felt half alright...?).

For the briefest moment, Peter felt the faintest touch of a revelation haunting _just_ outside his perception, _almost_ within reach, _almost_ within focus... that it really didn't have to be the World and Himself. He _almost_ remembered what it had been like before... back when he had belonged in this life before Matt Parkman had raped him of his place within it. Peter had used to be capable of great things – he had stood up to his father and stopped his deluded scheme, he had saved New York City from exploding, he had saved a young cheerleader from a deadly predator! The Company had been troublesome, yes, but he had overcome it more than a few times. Why should Renautas be any different...?

As if in response to this thought process, before another word could tumble past his lips... Peter accidentally looked over Hesam's shoulder. And locked eyes with one Noah Bennet.

*

There he was. Typical. Out in the open rather than slipping away into hiding like the _other_ one. That was why Noah had taken his time to get here – he knew there was no sense rushing things.

Despite himself, the agent felt a tiny spark warm him, for old times' sake. Peter was _so_ predictable. Always too stubborn to back down from a confrontation, so sure that he was in the right of every predicament. He was astoundingly like his mother in that regard. However, very unlike Mrs Petrelli, it seemed that Peter had been more than a little emotionally swept up in the consequences of Sylar's latest, despicable deed.

It was a shame, in a way, that Noah knew he was about to shatter this empathetic young man with what he had to do next. He had never particularly enjoyed being the bearer of bad news, but when it went hand in hand with possibly destroying the cretin that had once been Gabriel Gray, it was a fair sacrifice to pay.

Noah waded his way through the mess of the emergency room, untouched by the waves of desolation that seemed to part to make way for his large presence. He never once broke his eye contact with the frozen, caught-in-the-headlights gaze of the paramedic before him. And didn't at all regret his call to venture forth alone, without his team behind him as a back-up. He wouldn't need them for what he was about to do. No. This needed a more... personal touch. Delivered man to man by a well-known acquaintance...

*

It was funny how underplayed this was compared to thoughts of a hold-up hostage situation that Peter had allowed to run away with him, and how ridiculous the tough, scary figure he'd been distorting in his mind seemed now that Noah Bennet was actually walking towards him. Of course he was dangerous, formidable, and not the best person to piss off on a good day... but he was also kind-of-extended family, and used to be a sort of friend. Noah's sudden arrival had been shocking, yeah, but now that that impact was fading, Peter wasn't frightened of him in the slightest. Right then he felt only contempt for the man.

“Peter. Fancy seeing you here.” The words were gently laid out in that ever-motionless tone, the one that, from the outside, could almost appear kindly. Noah sidled up behind Hesam, wearing half a smile and half a smirk, and tapped the Iranian on the arm. “Give us a minute would you? ...Good man.”

Peter looked silently after Hesam as he retreated with his coffee and that curious, don't-ask-don't-tell expression that he'd taken to wearing a lot lately. Well, there went a perfect excuse not to turn this conversation ugly...

In the absence of a friendly witness, Peter felt his hackles instantly rise. He turned his back on this unwanted visitor, quickly busying himself with more patients, even as he was unable to pull his attention away from the ominous man at his shoulder. “I know why you're here.” Peter stated, cutting right to the chase.

“Is that so?” Noah asked lightly, amused, and tension only rolled further over Peter like an inescapable cocoon. How dare he act like he'd done nothing?! When his employers were either using this disaster to their advantage, or had _caused_ it for their own means...?!

Fighting to keep from shouting, Peter pointed a finger at Noah's chest. “You can say what you want! You and your _company_ can pretend you're “helping people” or whatever – but I won't believe a word you say, Noah!” He spat, haunted by the after image of the shaken, hurt expression on Sylar's face when he'd stood exactly where Noah was standing now.

The middle-aged man expressionlessly let Peter vent, as obstinate as always and only serving to increase Peter's scorching emotions. After suffering through so many turmoils today alone, he was really _not_ in the mood to play nice in the face of adversary.

“How could you blame all _this_ on an innocent man? This was never his style anyway, even at his worst! Does this _really_ scream “Sylar” to you? Huh?!” Peter seethed, his armour only fracturing more as he dropped his eyes back onto the victims of the attack. It was true: since when did the consistent M.O. of a habitual serial killer suddenly develop into mass-murder of non-specials for the gain of no ability or power at all?

Even if it were to somehow sound more believable than the desperate sham of an excuse that it was, Peter still wouldn't even fathom the idea that Sylar was involved in this disaster. No. He _knew_ that man inside out, and while Peter might be crap at his proper paramedic procedure, and crap at masking his emotions the infuriating way that Bennet could always effortlessly do, his one feature that would _never_ fail... was his loyalty.

Bennet's head tipped sadly and he sighed, wiping at a crack in the lens of his glasses. “Well it seems like you've already made up your mind about the whole ordeal, Peter.”

“Yeah. I have.” Peter bit out, feeling very much like he had back in school when standing up to a bully on the victim's behalf. Really, there wasn't much difference. That's what Noah was – a bully. All talk and manipulation, because he was _lying_ and only pretending to be more powerful than he really was. “And nothing you say is gonna change my mind.”

“Think back, Peter.” Noah spoke slowly. “You must know he hates working in that shop. He's been desperate for a way out for weeks, and then look what just conveniently happened to set things in motion again. In all his accusations of blame, I'd bet he never once even _denied_ it, did he?”

Peter glared with a steel gaze through those infamous spectacles. Refusing to entertain Noah's attempt to sway him, he stood his ground with all his might. He was preparing for a fight, ready to scrap right here in the middle of his workplace if need be, because he was far too wound up and worn and crumbling under the weight of every single victim's pain – including Sylar! – and the man responsible for that could very well be standing here before him!

But Noah just sighed again, conceding defeat. _That_ , however, Peter wasn't prepared for. “Alright.” The older man said, rocking back on his heels and slipping his hands into his pockets. “Don't listen. Watch.” And suddenly a phone was being thrust under Peter's nose.

He stumbled back a little, regaining his balance. What the hell...? It took only a second for the insinuation of the device to filter through, and Peter almost knocked the thing to the ground in disgust. He wasn't even going to dignify this with his time! But then Noah raised his eyebrows, and that signature, calm voice curled out tauntingly like a snake's forked tongue.

“If you're so sure of your... friend... what're you afraid of?” He lofted the phone enough so that Peter could see a black and white grainy image dancing in his peripheral vision.

He didn't _want_ to look. He didn't _want_ to see whatever bullshit trick had been crafted to challenge his viewpoint. But Peter's core, his very centre, that same old _loyalty_ , had been called into question. So, grudgingly he grabbed the phone and set his eyes on what appeared to be security camera footage of a man blazing his way through iron corridors.

And then Peter's blood ran cold.

It was the final knock to his being, the one so harrowing that he couldn't withstand it anymore, that drained all feeling from his body until he was nothing but pulsing heat behind traitorous eyes. It was a _trick_ , he assured himself. An ability of sorts, a shape-shifter at work...! But... a shape-shifter wouldn't be able to assume a stolen appearance while simultaneously using telekinesis with that telltale, deadly precision...

Oh god... Peter had been _so_ sure. But now... thinking back... Sylar _had_ never actually said the words “I didn't do it”. He'd been saddened by the injured, yeah, unfathomably _guilty_... and Peter had never even thought to ask himself _why_. Had he been too blind? Too trusting...? Again? Everything within him rushed towards denial, towards faith and hope and affection winning out. That had always been his first reaction to everything, after all. However, this sensitive man's sensitive core had been bent out of shape one too many times by Gabriel Gray to take this stab wound lightly.

There was that dull ache in the pit of his soul starting up again, starting to claw and rip and tear at the fabric Peter had over-stitched back together over the years of constant betrayals. It threatened to hurt like it had when Peter had first felt the creeping realisation that his mother was _yet again_ at the foundations of another deception, the worst one of all: the death of her own son; pressure was bruising the cauterized wound that his father's 'death' and 'resurrection' had seared into him; it was that same old incision that Nathan had began way back when he'd thrown his younger brother under the bus to protect his campaign. Peter Petrelli knew that feeling far too well not to place the beginnings of it now... it was the unseen trauma that only accompanied being used by someone he cared deeply for.

He tried to swallow past the lump in his dry throat as he watched the dark figure on the screen bestow his abilities like a dreadful gift upon the interior of the oil rig. He wanted to believe the connection he'd _felt_ binding him and his friend together, to be as sure of himself as he was just seconds ago before this footage had shattered his perception like a crack in broken glass, to ignore his eyes and head and heart all telling him he'd been _wrong_ all along!

...But he couldn't. He'd know that man anywhere. The one who had chased him through highschool corridors. Who had sliced into his skull and left him for dead. The one who had been his only lifeline in an otherwise dead, empty existence. The one who had ravaged an oil rig out at sea and obliterated innocent lives with the expert ease he'd always possessed.

There was no mistaking him. It was Sylar.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, now there's some food for thought ^.^ Let me know what you think, as always, and I hope you thought this chapter was worth the (really long) wait X)
> 
> I know I always say it, but at risk of sounding like a broken record: I'm sorry for such a delay between updates! DX It's not my choice, I can promise you. Damn real world is throwing off my groove... 
> 
> Don't worry though, I am still writing, just not at the pace I want to. There absolutely will be more story to come, as soon as I can physically write it and get it up here hehe ^.^


	8. Honey & Ice

“It's not Sylar.”

Peter had stated it as if it was the most insignificant thing in the world. But then again he'd never been a good liar. Noah watched as the younger man handed the phone back to him, stiffly shouldered past and continued working. Or at least tried to give off that impression in the chaos that was finally showing signs of ebbing around them.

The paramedic hovered about the emergency room, either attempting to look busy or genuinely unsure of what to do next in the wake of such a disorientating body blow. Noah followed him, unable to suppress an inkling of sorrow at the other man's distress. He was cracking, like a building struggling to stay standing as it's vital bricks were smashed away. Yet when he spoke again his voice was strong, and it was only the doubt in his eyes that betrayed the belief in his own words.

“That could be anyone.” Peter gestured to the phone held loosely in Noah's hand, the video still flickering on the screen. “Alright? It's _not_ him.”

It couldn't have been more obvious that he was covering for his... acquaintance. And _heavily_ avoiding the facts that were spelled out clearly before him in black and white. Noah held less than one shred of uncertainty about the identity of the man caught on camera, for while the video was not of the best quality, it was _enough_. This footage, coupled with his team personally monitoring the killer's actions, not to mention a very credible source, all blatantly screamed one thing and one thing only: Sylar was guilty.

And Peter knew it too. The news must have hurt him, of that Noah had no doubt, but here he was still defending the honour of a man who didn't deserve an ounce of it. It was that same part within the youngest Petrelli son that the elder had known exactly how to play so he could get away with anything and everything in his brother's eyes. It was a shame, really, that in a grotesque, twisted act of fate, the man who had ripped that figure from Peter's life seemed to have stepped into his shoes to take over abusing him right where Nathan had left off.

The assignments where personal feelings were involved were always the toughest, but thankfully Noah did still possess a shadow of decency for situations such as this. He knew the plan, knew the importance of drilling the ugly truth home within Peter, and fully intended to do so. But that didn't mean he took pleasure in hurting the guy who had saved his daughter's – and his own – life more than once in the past. So Noah spoke gently, although he didn't have to.

“Sylar left his shop today. Disappeared off our radar just before the explosion.” Peter stubbornly ignored this, instead settling on stopping beside one of the few stretchers that were still littered around. Then he hesitated, and for a second the seasoned agent's training flared and he was sure the kid was about to draw a weapon...! But no, he only lifted something to his palm that came away bloody, then pressed his hand onto the patient's wounded neck.

Regeneration...? Noah made a mental note to take that into account for later.

A gruff reply came from Peter's turned back. “That doesn't mean anything. He could have gone anywhere.”

“Precisely. He could have gone _anywhere_.” Noah could practically hear Peter's teeth grinding as he moved swiftly onto another stretcher. So _this_ was how he had been spending this pivotal day? When Sylar had been causing the mess that Peter was now so valiantly trying to clean up, even after he knew the truth? “You know as well as I do who's on that footage. And you're right, I'll admit it – killing hundreds of people like this is not his usual style. But blasting through innocent lives to get his own way? _That's_ a different story. He was never going to stay chained up like a pet for long, you should've known this better than anyone -”

Peter turned on him then, hurt welling up behind his eyes. “Why is it so hard to believe that he's the person he says he is?! Huh? People change, Noah!”

“...In my experience, never for the better.”

The words lay there, thick and spoiled for a moment before Peter held himself up straighter. Despite this festering war building between the two men, there was true empathy in the youngest's eyes then. “Then I feel sorry for you.”

And suddenly Peter wasn't an accomplice to Noah's primary target right then, or this wounded, brotherless mess of a person standing before him now. No, he was a lonely and isolated man with an empty fridge and an even emptier life, sitting beside Noah and waiting for a safety deposit box simply because he'd helped out when nobody else would. It was bizarre to think how much things had changed since Noah had advised Peter to consider some life changes those months ago. It was easy to say the guy wasn't shutting himself off from human interaction anymore, which _would_ have been a positive thing... if he hadn't latched onto the worst possible person to be his saving grace.

“It's good that you went out there and made a change in your life, Peter. It's healthy to have friends, and if it was my advice that -”

Peter scoffed, running bloody fingers through his too long hair, apparently not for the first time judging by the dirty, sticky state of it. “I never set out to befriend Sylar of all people! I haven't forgotten what he's done! It's just...” He broke off, looking around the dissipating hysteria in the room as if re-evaluating his defence in the light of this fresh news. “...It's complicated. Okay? I didn't go looking for it. It just happened.” The unapologetic look shining in those eyes reminded Noah very strongly of the boy's mother when _she_ refused to justify her actions. It was easy to forget sometimes, but presently Noah was it clearly: Peter definitely was a Petrelli through and through.

This unbelievable partnership was an itch that Noah couldn't get rid of, one that bugged him like a splinter digging only deeper with the passage of time. He had mulled it over more than a few times since the rather clumsy phone call the morning after the Carnival, and now he was seriously entertaining the thought that some form of telepathy or mind control was at play here. It sounded far-fetched, but it was a hell of a lot easier to accept than this sudden, magical friendship that had formed out of nothing, and was the only other rational option he could think of apart from perhaps Peter and Sylar having had a secret thing going all along? There was just no other sensible foundation for this iron-clad fidelity that was wrong on so many levels. If Peter _was_ brainwashed, then what happened next wouldn't be his choice, or fault. But if he wasn't... then he still deserved more tolerance than Noah would normally give a mark.

Mr Bennet heaved a great sigh. “You should know that if you stand by him... you'll be implicated. Who you are won't matter, not to my employers. And I won't be able to help you for old time's sake.” The young man turned away again, seeking out another means of distraction in the form of someone else needing his help. He was trying to act like he wasn't affected by this conversation, Noah knew because that was his own choice tactic in a similar situation, but any idiot could see an empath's unbidden, true emotions frothing beneath the surface. They might be difficult to perfectly pinpoint and might refuse to freely spill forth, but that only succeeded in scalding the host internally. “I have to take him in.”

“Then get some real evidence.”

Ah, denial. Except this man's draft of the stuff was tainted. He was only following the motions, evidentially lying for someone he didn't even believe in anymore because he didn't know what else to do.

Swiftly moving on from that dead end (the hazy security footage was more than enough to incriminate Sylar to the _right_ people anyway), Noah employed the next stage of his game plan. “Where is he? If you tell me, this doesn't have to turn into something worse than it already is.”

“I thought you've been spying on us? Can't find him yourself?” Peter asked scathingly, worry and question thinly veiled beneath the accusation. Remarkable, although convenient – even after what he now knew, Peter still cared for Sylar's well-being. Now thatwas something that Noah couldn't identify with in the slightest.

The emergency room was emptying steadily. The stretchers had sufficiently dropped in number, the flow of them had almost run dry and the backlog was finally being addressed by the exhausted, stressed-out staff members. Soon, Peter would have no excuse not to look at Noah, and have nothing in the vicinity to distract him from the painful words he was trying to shake off.

“We lost him, actually.” Noah said calmly. “He's quite a skilled evader.”

“Well I dunno where he is.” Another transparent lie. Just as expected. “And even if I did, d'you _really_ think I'd tell you?”

“No.” Which, in the end, was exactly the point. “I know you and _Sylar_ think of me as the bad guy here -” It was almost hilarious in its irony. “- but there's no need for you to get caught in the crossfire of this whole mess.”

Peter made as if to respond, probably arming sharp words in Noah's direction, but the pair fell still as two nurses hurried over to relieve the current stretcher Peter was attending to. The paramedic looked lost for a second without another perceivable means of escape, and as the place was now too exposed to continue his secret miracle healing, he was forced to confront Noah face to face once more.

“Can't you see I'm only trying to help you, Peter? You don't need to be involved at all.” The company man said slowly, quietly, as to avoid unwanted eavesdropping.

Wheels squeaked on the linoleum as more stretchers retreated, and the crowd of non-emergency patients and bystanders was still wailing and babbling nearby. But somehow, when Peter spoke in a low, gruff tone, not one syllable was lost in the surrounding noise.

“Because I'm just a mindless pawn to be played by everybody else? You? Sylar? My _mother_? Is that it?” A frown decorated his brow and he crossed his arms firmly over his chest, holding himself together by force by the looks of it. “Look: I appreciate the heads up, but I don't need your help. I can take care of myself, Noah.”

“...And Sylar?” Sure enough, Peter faltered once Noah had planted that seed. “You'll take care of him too? Harbour a killer and faithfully clean up his mess? That doesn't sound very like the Peter Petrelli I know.”

Slowly, the empath turned away yet again, devastation pouring through the cracks in his failing armour like steam. Noah half expected another angry retort, or lie, or a defiant glare to end all glares, but instead Peter only hesitated long enough for few, quiet words before roaming shakily down the corridor in search of more damage to salve. “Then maybe I'm not who you think I am anymore.”

As Noah allowed Peter to make his exit for now, the other man's last statement resonated through him like an off-tune twang of a guitar. It was uncomfortably jarring, although it probably wasn't intended to be as much. Noah suspectedthe words were lingering with him, the insinuation of them, because they were almost an exact echo of the same thing Sylar had said back in the musty watchmaker's shop. It was a leak of a shared identity crisis that the two men seemed to be under the impression of: ' _I'm not that person anymore_ '. If that was true... who were they then? And what the hell was the missing piece to this infuriating puzzle...?

Pushing through that disjointing thought, Noah adjusted his company agent persona to re-assess the situation from a professional standpoint. Fine, if Peter would willingly choose Sylar, even after knowing what he'd done today, so be it. Mind-control or not, nobody was going to dissuade Peter Petrelli from a mission he'd set his heart on. He was a grown man who could make his own decisions, and so it was was only fair that he live with the repercussions of them. Which, if nothing else, definitely made the next part of Noah's job easier.

*

Once all the victims from the explosion had been appropriately delivered to their next place, be that their final or temporary, Peter still had to keep moving. He had to be busy. He had to stay here because as soon as he stepped outside and the real world hit him, nothing would ever be the same.

It was hours later when Hesam finally convinced him that he needed to get out of the building. Like a reluctant dog being pried from the beach when he wasn't ready to go home, Peter grudgingly agreed that he had to leave sooner or later. This wasn't an ordinary day when he could work over indefinitely, or as long as he physically could (which, under his current ability, could be days at a time) and nobody would miss him elsewhere. Tonight was different, and Peter hadn't been able to shake the awareness for one second since Noah's unpleasant visit that someone _was_ missing him right now. Someone he wasn't even sure he wanted to face.

But now the time had come when he could hide here no longer. Destiny waited for no one, and so currently Peter strode through the hospital corridors with a change of clean clothes in his bag and a lead weight in his heart, walking with the determination of another mission. He always hated using the showers here, but today called for some sacrifices. Yet the showers weren't the first place he headed. He was such a mess after today's shift, and the blood, sweat and gore coating him externally was the least of it. Fuck, everything was going to shit, just as he had been dreading all along...! Another Company pulling all the strings from the background; innocent people dying in swarms; Peter being forced from his life and hunted like an outlaw for something he wanted no part in... Or at the very least, being “implicated” by Sylar's -

No. No. _Not_ Sylar's. He might now know anything for sure, but as long as there was a sliver of hope to be found then Peter would cling to it avidly with both hands. He shouldn't just believe Noah Bennet, king of lies, over the best friend he'd ever had. No matter how familiar the man on the video looked or what Noah had said or what Sylar _hadn't_. It wasn't fair to jump to conclusions before even giving the guy a chance to defend himself, and so until then Peter would try so fucking hard to retain his judgement, even though the dread was swallowing him whole and rendering him shaken and light-headed.

Upon collecting his belongings from his locker, Peter had been greeted by many missed calls and texts from Sylar himself (some as recent as within the hour, which was reassuring even if Peter still wasn't sure whether to be sick with relief or fury). Of course... there had been a message from Noah too, featuring an attachment. This one Peter didn't open. He didn't need to. The sight of that tall, thin figure with the dark coat and telekinetic precision was still playing on a constant loop behind his eyelids anyway.

Rubbing his grimy face with his hands, he backed up against the wall to avoid being jostled by more human traffic. The urge to stay and help tugged at him... but he knew he couldn't procrastinate any longer, so just pushed onwards through the labyrinthian corridors of the hospital with great difficulty. It would be dangerously easy to split along the edges from the inside out, but Peter fought with all the resolve he had left not to break down.

Why couldn't things just be simple... silent? For one day? An hour, then? Was it too much to ask for a break now and again to gather his senses, even _before_ his frail pretence of a day to day life had been blown to smithereens by the big bad wolf and his army? The treadmill of life was spinning far too fast for this stumbling man but he knew if he slowed even slightly he'd fall and so there was nothing left to do but to keep running harder and faster and longer and let himself burn and fail and break because giving up wasn't even an option.

The only consolation were the few, brief, secret moments to do absolutely nothing. The moments that nobody else knew about.

It felt like forever before the door came into sight at last at the end of the corridor, and for the first time all day Peter gratefully slipped inside, not bothering to turn on the lights. Bathed in the thick, cool blackness and finally divided from the muffled racket of the hospital, he sank back against the closed door and let out a breath that made his legs go weak. God, he'd needed this. It was awful that he couldn't go a day without it, but right then he didn't care, he was just so grateful for this escape that belonged only to him. There wasn't long to hide though. He had but minutes before the world would find him here.

In the dark, the solitary silhouette trudged the well-worn path through the shelves and boxes to the back wall of the closet. The cold, rough brick met his fingertips and calmed him instantly, reeking of a time past and a distant world that he could never again reach. Was it wrong to yearn for the place that had imprisoned him for years? The place he had spent every day fighting to leave? During his sentence, Peter had never imagined that he'd actually long after the tranquil streets spanning the expanse of Sylar's mind once he lost it. But in hindsight, he regretted not even appreciating the situation for its full potential. Now it felt like a lost vacation of sorts that he hadn't noticed at the time, a blissful escape from all the chaos and lies and rejection that had filled almost every moment of the past few years of his life. How ironic, Peter mused, that he'd lived more ordinarily inside a dream than he ever had in life.

Now the closest thing he had left of that retirement was this closet. This was _his_ place, the one he used in times of need, the safe place to hide where nobody else would have to share his pain. In here there was no one to impress, no one to disappoint and no one to hurt him. It was just Peter. Alone. It was the best re-enactment of the serenity of that dream that he had, a guilty pleasure that he knew he shouldn't want but also couldn't bear the thought of giving up even though he knew this was the last time he'd visit. He couldn't come back here. Not after today.

Sylar. The lifeline of him was too precious to endanger, but the rope was already fraying from Peter's end. He didn't want to ruin everything they'd built between them. He wished after the blissful ignorance and unquestionable trust he'd held for the man only hours ago, or at the very least to postpone the inevitable! Because even though it turned his stomach, and even though it tested the boundaries of Peter's steadfast morals – he knew that if Sylar _had_ been involved in the disaster of today... he still didn't want to let go of him.

But he had to be strong. He had to be brave and fight for those poor souls who had been taken from the Earth too early today. He had to put on a display to hide that he was falling to pieces, and he had to confront the one person he had trusted more than himself, even if it hurt like hell to do it. He had to say goodbye to this quiet, safe haven amongst shelves and boxes and medical equipment because he couldn't return once he took the plunge into the jaws of the future that were gaping wide below him, waiting.

So Peter closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, imagining that strength and courage were seeping into his body along with air. Then he put his faith in falling, as he always did, and pushed himself off the wall, soaring over the edge of the unknown and into fate's hands.

 

***

 

Fifteen. Sylar had recovered _fifteen_ bugs from around Peter's apartment: some in the light fittings, some in the air vents, some beneath the bed and even one in the bathroom for fuck's sake! They were strewn everywhere they could possibly be, taking advantage of the recently refurbished place to hide amongst the mismatched armchairs, the shelves and even the rug that was supposed to make this hideout more cosy and homely than it had been previously. It wasn't a huge leap to assume that Sylar's home would be blemished with them too. The only comfort he could glean from the scenario was that at least the devices only captured audio. The thought of his and Peter's private conversations being snooped in on angered him to no end, but he didn't think he'd have been able to handle it if they'd been filmed too.

From his present viewpoint of sitting straight-backed and cross-legged on the couch, the tangle of wires and microphones stared up at Sylar from the new coffee table, ugly and mocking. It was dehumanising to be spied on like some godforsaken animal or criminal or worse! Although that was probably the point – 'evos' weren't humans, right? At least according to the world.

Evening was slipping into night, and by now Sylar was well and truly paranoid. He had scoured almost every inch of the place and was certain he hadn't missed another hidden microphone, yet he couldn't shake the sense that someone was still watching him. Someone was still listening. He hadn't said a word aloud since finding the bugs, just in case, and after conspicuously staging his escape had ensured to tiptoe around the apartment as quietly as a ghost. Throwing Bennet off his scent by openly flying out the window, only to sneak back in wielding a different face and the spare key Peter had given him would all be pointless if the disembodied ears caught him out anyway.

It had been hours. Perhaps not the longest hours of Sylar's life (there were a lot of those to go around), but somewhere within that bracket. It was impossible not to worry for his friend; for his safety, for his mental state... for his loyalty.

Sylar was trying so hard not to become _that_ person. The one who waited up, unable to concentrate on anything due to panicking themselves into a heightened, hyper state that would take days to pass and imprint upon everyone else in the vicinity, no matter how many times they apologised for getting back late... He wasn't going to become his mother. Although the time he'd missed the bus after school and had to walk home for miles was hardly a fair comparison to this current situation.

Poor Peter. He'd already been floundering so much before today, what with still being out of sync with the rest of the world. Back behind that wall, they had both assumed (Peter had never actually said it of course, although it wasn't hard to interpret) that out of the two of them – it would be Sylar who would have more trouble adjusting if they finally got back. But that wasn't the case in reality. At first it had been nice to know that he wasn't going to be left alone in this sense of disjointedness while Peter skipped perfectly back into things with his family and work friends... but now it had passed the stage where he should be getting better, and Peter was only descending further. It was seriously worrying, especially after witnessing the guy at work – Sylar had always imagined that although he struggled there, it was _worth_ it. After today though, he wasn't so sure anymore.

That last glimpse of him back at Mercy Heights was playing on repeat through Sylar's troubled mind. He had been so different than normal. Fractured. Ever since they'd broken free of Parkman's basement, the Peter Petrelli Sylar had come to know and care for hadn't quite been the same. Understandably there was a lot going on right now, but even then, Sylar worried for his only friend. Where was the guy who would never dream of turning away from someone begging him for help or attention? The optimistic young man who deliberately saw the best in every situation...? Peter had the most glorious, goofy laugh. In an odd way it didn't suit him at all, but at the same time couldn't possibly be replaced with another sound now that Sylar had been lucky enough to catch the illusive prize. Peter was ridiculously self-conscious of it (on those rare occasions he accidentally let slip more than a chuckle, that was), but the unique sound never failed to make anyone nearby smile, even if you were trying your damned best to stay mad at him! Sylar missed that laugh. He hadn't heard it in weeks, and never at all with his own ears outside their shared dream. It seemed impossible that those deep, happy hiccups could live within the tormented man at the hospital today.

Of course Peter was still Peter: doing everything in and beyond his power to help other people despite the personal repercussions. But that wasn't all there was to him. There was that other side, the young, playful, shy side that retreated when tickled and only shone brightest in the safe confines of privacy. And a giant wall around the enclosure of a city had sure been private enough. Nathan had known that Peter well: the man who would rock sheepishly on his feet when putting himself out there, the brother who loved to tease and toy with him in front of important friends and colleagues, the young nurse who had laughed upon being gifted women's shoes after graduation... It had seemed bizarre, at first, to liken those memories to the sole other inhabitant sharing Sylar's empty city. But then, over time, he had gotten so used to that part of Peter shining at the forefront that he had almost forgotten what it had been like to know him as only reserved, angry and wounded. And there had been unpleasant, whispered reminders of that today.

There was no ignoring it – Peter was suffering greatly. Sylar knew why though. He was an immensely intelligent man after all, even before adding to the fact that his intuitive aptitude and head-to-toe knowledge of the other man provided him with the best insight out of anyone else Peter knew. The empath was hurting so badly back here in the real world simply because he was too caring. Too _good_. He opened his heart up for everyone without meaning to – he couldn't help it, it was just how he was – and in the same way he had let an infamous killer into his heart, Peter Petrelli couldn't shut himself off if he tried. He was too receptive of everyone around him, and that outside force suddenly jumping up from literally _one_ to several billion all at once was bound to be overwhelming.

Surely there must be a limit to the amount of third party pain someone could take upon themselves before they collapsed under the strain? Peter had already been fragile after five years away, where his hardier exterior had softened in the absence of reality. And instead of taking some time to simply settle in first, the little idiot had launched himself from the deepest depths of retirement back into a lifestyle that was too rough for him, too brutal and uncaring of the cracks peppered across his form that needed tender, loving care first. Or at least a tightly wound bandage to prevent any more damage being done. Still though, Sylar _had_ tried to advise him against it, so it was hardly _his_ fault that Peter was failing and taking his stress on out the only person who actually _cared_ about his well-being!

Distracted by these thoughts, the watchmaker unconsciously spooned up another mouthful of the honeycomb ice cream he and Peter had bought together on their first day back in reality. It was surprising that there was any left in Peter's freezer (Sylar had finished his own batch embarrassingly quickly), and he did feel a little bad for helping himself to it – straight from the tub too! – but not bad enough to stop. Truth be told, Sylar wasn't even sure if he liked the taste that much, or just the soothing connotations of sharing the stuff many a time back in the mind prison. The ice cream had become a symbol in its own right: a peace treaty, a white flag offered when everything else was getting too much and they had both needed a moment just to chill and breathe. Which was why it was extra shocking to discover that Peter hadn't eaten it all yet; surely he had well and truly needed it these past weeks of newness and rehabilitation? Unless he was saving it for Sylar to visit? Hopefully, because then this sneaky snacking wouldn't be so dishonest.

Upon stumbling across the stuff while checking the freezer for more spying equipment, Sylar had told himself he wouldn't eat much of it. But as the hours had rolled by and his nerves had only intensified, he had carted the tub back and forth from the freezer to nibble just a little bit more and more until there was far less than half a tub left for Peter. Well it was his own fault for taking so long to get back here anyway!

Sylar frowned and scooped another chunk of cold, sugary therapy into his mouth, just out of spite. Then felt awful. He felt the creamy goodness melt almost instantly and wished the ice could numb his heart as well as it did his tongue. None of this was Peter's fault. He hadn't asked for any of it: the explosion, another Company invading his privacy, to be dragged down with Sylar simply for standing by him despite what he'd done... All Sylar could do was pray to a God he wasn't even sure would dignify him by noticing that today's events hadn't tipped the little hero right over the edge for good. If so... it would be all his fault...

With a soft _thud_ from nearby, Sylar's continued cycle of worry and anxiety was halted in place of his attention honing in on the front door. He'd thought he heard... but maybe it was just wishful thinking. Another few seconds passed in agonizing silence as Sylar swallowed his ice cream as quietly as possible. Then – yes, there it was again – shuffling footsteps approached outside. Unlike the others that had sounded since Sylar had been hiding here in the dark, these ones didn't pass by. And then a key scratched in the lock.

In an instant Sylar was on his feet, the ice cream tub abandoned and electricity flaring in his palm, just in case... Then with a sigh of relief he dropped both the ability and his defences as Peter Petrelli rounded the door properly. Thank god. At fucking last.

“What took you so long?!” Sylar demanded, aware that it came out needy and more than a little snappy. He strode across the room, deliberately softening his tone. “How are you? What happened back there?” He added thoughtfully, suddenly and guiltily thinking of Peter's feelings above his own. He must be spent after taking care of the oil rig fallout for hours, but at least he had made it home in one piece, had washed the blood and gore away, and looked to be in a considerably better state than when Sylar had last laid eyes on him. Exhausted or not, he sure was a sight for sore eyes!

However, Peter recoiled as Sylar approached, giving the taller man pause. Only then did he look beyond his blinding relief to notice that something was very wrong here. _No_...

*

He must have said it countless times over the years, but right then Sylar's words rolled memories of the famed Kirby Plaza through Peter's core. ' _What took you so long...?_ ' He closed his eyes briefly to chase away the vision of that night, the taste of danger in the air and the fear that the villain had implanted within him. He wasn't that man anymore... he _wasn't_. Or at least Peter was desperate to convince himself that.

The guilt suddenly dripping from the Sylar's frame didn't do much to help, though. “Peter? What happened?” He asked again, although this time his tone had slight nasal twinge to it, a flicker of fear running through.

It was even more painful to think on now that he was face to face with him, but Peter forced himself to look the man in the eye. Rage, terror, regret and compassion all warred within him at once, making it impossible to decide on which feeling to settle on. He dug a shaking hand into his pocket to retrieve the fateful video Noah Bennet had sent over and shoved the phone into Sylar's chest, beyond the capability of talking.

Reluctantly, Sylar caught the phone, absorbing everything on screen and mirroring through his expression the clip that Peter didn't (and couldn't bring himself to) watch again. He recalled it along with Sylar's viewing, trying to remain as impassive as possible while his heart tried to push its way free from his chest and his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. A man clad in a long black jacket and a baseball cap prowled through a corridor lined with pipes and billowing steam; glided up a set of stairs, knowing exactly where he was going, then crossed a metal grate walkway that stretched out of frame on either side; and with his face partially shielded under the brim of a hat, still stalking on those long legs, the man swished his arms through the air with perfect practice. It was a skill well-honed and as one with his body as an extra limb, as strong as his will and as destructive as a wrecking ball that tore pipes from the walls, ripped up the flooring and peeled back layer after layer of valuable, dangerous foundations to reach the unstable core within –

Peter didn't want to believe what Noah had said, what his eyes were telling him. Like feeling the agony of a broken limb but hoping it's not _really_ that bad despite the bone piercing through the skin, he was afraid to examine things too closely and have his worse fears confirmed. Maybe, if he didn't look for a little while longer, regeneration would have taken over and made everything okay...?

“Tell me that's not you.” He pleaded. It was fury that was strangling his vocal chords currently, furrowing his brow and boiling him alive inside like acid. He was sure it was fury. Or at least something else very easy to confuse it with.

*

“What?” Sylar hissed, hoping he had misheard through his blood pounding in his ears. Hoping somehow that this goddamned fucking video hadn't ruined everything. Was it already unsalvageable? Was his fate to be decided without his knowledge and at the hands of some grainy, insinuating security footage?! No, no, no! This wasn't how it was supposed to go! He'd just spent _hours_ waiting desperately to see this man again, but _this_ was to be his reward...?

“Tell me. That's not. _You_.” Peter repeated, his voice stronger this time although it was more fraught with emotion, more laden and prone to breaking.

It dawned on him slowly: first the faintest touch of an idea, then the nasty fingers of doubt running down Sylar's spine, and now those claws were earnestly ripping apart his ribcage. It shouldn't have taken as long for the realisation to fully bloom, but it did... Peter blamed him. Peter didn't believe he'd changed. All the promises and beautiful declarations of _trust_ and _faith_ didn't hesitate to disappear at the slightest test of will...? One accident, one disaster, was all it took to throw everything else away? Just like good ol' PC Plod had thought the night of the carnival – it seemed that the monster was damaged goods, too filthy to ever be capable of more, no matter how much he swore he could do it!

 

Sylar felt his walls draw close around him in a weak attempt to preserve himself. He didn't have to justify his actions _or_ his redemption! And if Peter was going to wound him in this way, he'd damn well better come out and say it to his face! Playing dumb, trying to ignore each breath searing his chest, Sylar still stupidly grasped onto the hope that he had misunderstood somehow. He narrowed his eyes at his companion's distressed face and pushed the incriminating video roughly back into Peter's stomach in return, somehow managing to keep his voice contained. “What are you implying?”

*

“Did you do it?!” Peter barked, falling above a level tone for the first time.

Sylar closed his eyes for a fraction of a second as if to compose himself instead of yelling. “I'll admit that guy looks quite like me, but aside from the fact that the quality is shot to hell for a start – do you _really_ think I flew out into the sea and killed all those people today...?”

“ _Did_ you?!” Peter demanded again, forcefully stowing his phone. His hands were shaking so badly that he curled them both into fists at his sides, although it wasn't a prelude to a fight, like so many that had gone before. It was only a means to try to re-direct the overbearing current of vehemence back into himself instead of letting it break the surface.

“...How could you even _ask_ me that?” Sylar growled, mortally offended. His anguish rebounded back twice as strong in Peter, but it wasn't escaping his notice that the other man was evading the questions very similarly to how a guilty man would. Yet he still couldn't possibly set his heart on one conclusion until he heard it himself from _those_ lips. Maybe he was wrong? He hoped he was wrong. Maybe Sylar genuinely _was_ upset at the suggestion...? Please let it be so.

“You left your shop today.” Peter clenched his jaw, trying to keep himself in one piece. “Why?”

“I –” Sylar stuttered, taken aback by the unexpected change in direction. He took a second to think, then threw his arms to either side. “I went to get coffee! I was gone for five minutes! You know our place on the corner of –?”

“Noah said his team lost track of you.” Peter cut over him, chasing away memories of many hours spent with Sylar in the mentioned cafe with hot drinks and steamed up windows protecting them from the harsh world outside. Both here and in a lost one. “He said you disappeared.”

“That's because they probably only looked for me down dungeons and dark alleys!”

“Sylar! _Please_!” Peter begged through gritted teeth, heaving in air through his nose and trying to keep from shouting or, even worse, bursting into tears after such a strenuous day. It was impossible to come across as strong when he knew his eyes were betraying him, and that Sylar could read him perfectly. “Why won't you just _answer the question_?!”

“Because!” Sylar scoffed, raking a hand through his raven hair while his eyes searched wildly for an explanation... an _excuse_...? “Because I... I can't believe you'd really trust Bennet over me.”

Shit, that one hurt. Just like Sylar knew it would. Unable to form a reply, Peter chewed his tongue and dropped his sore eyes, catching sight of an open tub of honeycomb ice cream sitting on the couch. His open scars cracked through him only deeper upon realising he'd unwittingly broken their rule. He'd started a fight around their time-out ice cream. Mostly it saddened him to ruin Sylar's intentions, but at the same time he couldn't help but wonder if the man had put it there on purpose to delay what he knew was coming his way.

*

“Does none of it matter?” Sylar continued, his lips thin in offence and brows struggling to commandeer his old mask of authority. “Everything we've been through together, how hard I worked at this? Or is it really that easy to just throw it all away the first time someone points the finger...?”

It was difficult to stay high enough above the swell of hurt to employ a buffer of dominance, and his attempts to come across as only miffed and condescending failed miserably. Peter didn't answer, just glared up at Sylar the way he'd used to back in the early days. He'd used to throw that look frequently: a combination of sorrow, pain and utter revulsion in his gaze, one that subsequently came across as someone not to be messed with... and a damaged man who's heart had just been broken. Sylar had used to despise it with a passion – not even due to the hatred directed his way (which, admittedly, he wasn't a big fan of), but because it always succeeded in making him feel awful for putting that look there in the first place.

It took a prolonged, agonizing second before Peter opened his mouth to reply, but Sylar interrupted him, all at once unable to hear the justification of his ugly past working against him at every hurdle. “I've said I'm sorry already! A million times! What more will it take, Peter? I'm _sorry_ – for everything! For you, for Claire, my mother, your father, Nathan –!” Shit. It just slipped out. Ever since the last few hours before the wall had broken in the dream, Sylar had been careful not to mention the elder Petrelli's name. The memory alone of the last failed time he'd tried to apologise for slitting the politician's throat (although, yes, perhaps rather insensitively) was enough to increase Sylar's shame and remorse only more.

The empath shivered like he'd been slapped across the face. “This isn't about _Nathan_.” He growled. But it was the lower, subdued tone of voice that told Sylar that yes, it _was_ about Nathan in some part. Peter had been thinking of his brother, and thinking of the killer who had stolen him from this life. Sylar cursed himself for being so careless and letting that name escape him. Because it would only remind Peter even more what he was capable of.

No... no... Sylar could feel it all slipping out of his grasp already. He was losing everything in slow motion, and only getting more desperate to reclaim what was rightfully _his_! What he'd fought for so passionately despite a troubled, difficult redemption that was bound to waver at times and had now become as much of an obstacle as the fucking hunting and killing had been!

*

Peter tensed as the tall man lunged at him and roughly grabbed his hand, before holding it flat over his heart, like last time. “Use Lydia's ability! See for yourself!” Sylar encouraged, but the paramedic tugged his arm free from the pleading warmth of Sylar's.

He shook his head, suffocating around the lump in his throat. “No.” He said clearly, quietly. “I wanna hear you _say_ it. We're supposed to _trust_ each other.” Trust wasn't really true if it relied on an ability, Peter believed, and once more Sylar's grand gesture was tainted because he was aware of that. All the same, Peter wouldn't be able to stand the uncertainty of needing to read this man's soul every time he said or promised something, and so he channelled forth the resilient traces of hope and affection from within his palpitating heart. He ignored his hammering pulse and the fact that he couldn't feel his body, and laced his words with all the conviction he possessed. “ _Tell me_ you didn't hurt those people...” The last words escaped him breathlessly. “...And it'll be enough.”

*

It shouldn't have been so surprising – after all, Sylar had lived his entire life being doubted by everyone who knew him. It wasn't a new occurrence and he knew this wouldn't be the last time it happened over his immortal years. It dug at his gut though, to have it come down to this with Peter Petrelli of all people. Shouldn't his efforts be enough on their own? Did he really have to stoop so low as to swear his innocence out loud?

Trying not to sound as wounded as he felt, Sylar spoke slowly, ensuring that nothing from his statement could be lost in translation. “I did _not._ Hurt those people.”

Yes, it was the first time he'd said so aloud. He did realise that now. But it wasn't through avoidance. He had been foolishly holding onto the hope that maybe, just once, he wouldn't have needed to defend himself in order to not be blamed for the crime. Of course, it only hurt more because Peter was justified in his doubt – Sylar would never forget his own past, and he knew and accepted the consequences of his actions, but it would never get easier to live with. It was his own fault that his word was so flimsy, and that was the worst pain of all. Recalling the stench and sights of the emergency room and all those victims shook Sylar from head to toe, because he knew he could have done so much worse than what had happened to them if he'd wanted.

“I haven't hurt _anyone_. I was in my shop all day except for getting coffee, I swear. I had _nothing_ to do with that explosion.” Sylar forced as much truth and promise into his words as he could muster without turning inside out in desperation. The rest of the world could hate him, could turn their backs on him and wish him dead if they must... but not Peter. Not him.

The room buzzed around the two men, and if there _were_ any remaining Renautas bugs then whoever was listening had sure landed on a goldmine of vulnerability and weakness among the ranks. But for the first time since arriving in this now confined, warm and decorated apartment, Sylar didn't care at all about being spied on. Not when his only friend was still standing there regarding him with that expression that would stall even this murderer's heart.

In an odd moment of rarity, Peter Petrelli was impossible for Sylar to read just then. His forehead was dimpled in a frown, his jaw tensing repeatedly and his eyes swimming with a multi-coloured concoction of too many emotions at once. It was a visible war that played out across those fine features; a balancing act along the razor's edge of decision between forgiveness or punishment. He hovered there for a prolonged moment, his destination still infuriatingly unclear and every stretching second picked loose another stitch holding Sylar together. Until, finally, the young man fell gracefully from his perch, dipped his head and sighed out all his fury, accusation and fear in one hollowing breath. “...I'm sorry.”

The steel anvil lifted from Sylar's chest when those two glorious little words were husked into the air at long last. And when Peter lifted his face again, those eyes were so achingly sad and tired that Sylar could _feel_ how badly the empath had wanted to believe him all along. It still fucking stung that he hadn't though. “I'm sorry.” Peter repeated. It had gotten _way_ too close right then, and although the blame was now ebbing away almost visibly in the air, Sylar couldn't shrug off the insult that was still prickling along his skin like poisoned needles.

It felt strangely similar to returning from the brink of death (a sensation which, unfortunately, Sylar had plenty of experience with) to feel the ground shifting back into place around him when all had so nearly been lost. Peter might have chosen Sylar in the end, but it didn't feel like much of the triumph it should be in light of such accusations. The paramedic waited quietly, wordlessly begging for reassurance like a magnet desperately enticing the half that Sylar held close... but the scorned man wasn't sure if he should grant Peter's wish yet or not. It still felt a little soon. Let him earn it first.

Just to test that thought, it seemed, Peter's face suddenly creased and his bottom lip jerked in a renewed wave of distress. Voice trembling, he tripped back a few steps and raised a hand to his forehead. “I'm _sorry_ , okay _–_ everything's just falling apart an- and it was all so crowded back there and I didn't... couldn't _help_ them all! Then Noah he, he said these _things –_ and I didn't know what to believe... I didn't want to – I _know_ what it means to you and – I'm sorry. Alright? I'm... sorry...”

And just like that, Sylar relented. He pushed his unfinished anger away for now in light of a more important matter here, because what this struggling being currently needed wasn't to feel guilty for blaming someone for a horrific deed they'd had no part in. What he needed was a friend. Sylar sighed as if Peter was getting into a state about nothing, and reached for him, allowing that invisible force to draw him towards Peter's demanding half of the magnet at last. “Shhh...” The other man didn't flinch this time, and Sylar couldn't ignore the relief washing over him when Peter welcomed the hand comfortably cupping the side of his neck. It was a consoling gesture, a whisper of Nathan's brotherly manhandling but with most of Sylar thrown in. He was careful not to remind the sensitive guy too much of his lost brother, but to only press the right buttons that would appropriately unwind him. And close, intimate touch in privacy such as this was a must have.

*

“Peter...” Sylar crooned, rocking them both a little as he re-adjusted his grip. His hand was large, soothing and cold from the ice cream, and Peter allowed his face to be tipped up by Sylar's thumb. He couldn't avoid the scrutiny like this, not when the taller man was so close that Peter could smell the honey on his breath. So he wasn't mad? He wasn't furious? He didn't hate Peter for what he'd thought...?

It meant so much, so suddenly, to have someone hold him, forgive him and _care_ for him. Was so overwhelming that his voice ran away into hiding. Peter tried to clear this throat but found that he couldn't, instead he only waited anxiously as Sylar just watched him like he was the most sorrowful, helpless thing in the world. Sympathy – it was that emotion, not anger, not upset, that unmistakeably glinted in that gaze, condensed into its purest form and soaring right to the heart of the problem like an archer's precise arrow. Dark eyes, swimming with condolence, slowly roamed over Peter's blushing cheeks, his well-chewed and flushed lips, up the planes of his face to settle on the fateful spot on his forehead where that same man had once sliced open the skin with his finger. And then Sylar smiled.

“Apology accepted.” The deep voice rumbled into the narrow space between them. “I mean, it's hardly the most moronic thing that puny little brain has come up with over the years...”

For a second Peter just stared. And then he snorted out a little puff of humour, grateful and appreciative of his friend's attempt to haul him back from the brink of a meltdown. Even at the expense of his own, wrongfully wounded, pride. It was an old tactic that Peter was very familiar with now: when Sylar would try to distract or interrupt an emotional outburst before it could take hold. In contrast to popular opinion, the 'merciless killer' didn't really like to fight. He didn't like raised voices or unstable emotion. It had taken a good few years of only isolation and each other for Peter to realise that. And the fact that Sylar was the only person who could always make Peter laugh rather than cry was just one more of the special, wonderful, unique little things about the man that he couldn't imagine losing.

A sudden bubble of relief swelled and burst inside the paramedic's ribcage – Sylar hadn't destroyed the oil rig, Peter believed that, and had gracefully forgiven the accusation that probably deserved much more attention than it had got. Which, all combined, meant he wasn't planning on going anywhere anytime soon. Good. Because Peter needed him desperately right now.

The hand by his face gifted courage, the magic essence of simple human touch revitalising Peter's starved, failed batteries. But it wasn't enough to untangle the heavy mass that had been steadily growing inside for weeks on end.Feeling suddenly very exposed under the magnifying glass that was now directing the beam of attention at him, Peter dropped his face to disconnect Sylar's intense, prying gaze. His blurring vision sought out the melting ice cream behind the watchmaker... tradition was tradition after all, it seemed. Peter didn't really _want_ to be so weak, he didn't _want_ to confess his fears and nightmares like a scared kid at a slumber party. He _needed_ to.

After trying to ignore them for so long, the time had come at last for all the feeble lies and pretences to be recognised for what they were. Audibly, that was, because Peter had been aware since the beginning that Sylar had known the truth all along. The thought toyed with him then – maybe _this_ had been the guy's intention when breaking out that fateful, honeycomb tub for him to come home to?

“I'm... I'm trying my best.” Peter confessed croakily, chewing his tongue again and finding his hands fisting in the fabric at Sylar's waist of their own accord. “But it's not... not working.” Blinking rapidly to chase away the pesky tickle behind his eyes, Peter found himself rooted to the spot, transfixed by the memories of today's evening hours and the burning heat of Sylar's palm beneath his jawline. He locked eyes with the man once again, taking strength from his presence. Sylar had seen him at his literal worst, in the darkest moments of his past. Yet here he was anyway, a friend, a confidant who had well and truly proved himself as trustworthy by now. Sylar wasn't the problem here – the problem was addressing this struggle directly for the first time.

“This job? This _world_...?” Peter's voice faded a little and he bit down on his tongue again. This was the very same fear, the coil of anxiety that he had stubbornly ignored every night and pushed on through every morning, determined that today would be better, today would be okay... He hadn't even admitted it fully to himself yet, for fear of never being rid of it again. But here, in the intimacy of his own apartment and his friend's strong hold, Peter found that the words he had been swallowing back down like bile for so long left him easily. “...I don't think I can _do_ it anymore.”

When Sylar spoke, it was with a definitive smile to his voice. “Then don't.”

*

He watched Peter blink and push his hair out of his face, struggling to process that unorthodox advice. “Quit your job.” Sylar elaborated, his eyes crinkling at the outside corners. “Again.”

Surely this wouldn't come as a complete surprise? It was spelled out so clearly, it was the natural order to right the warped path they had been following lately. Sylar was sure he hadn't been the only one spending his days thinking it over, forever waiting for _the_ _next stage_ to catch up with him. Regardless, he said it simply, easily, to hammer the point home as cleanly as possible within Peter's muddled, bruised mind. “No wonder you feel trapped in that place and that uniform – when you could do a hundred times more on your own.”

“...You mean with abilities?” The little man breathed, as if the thought was just dawning on him for the first time.

Sylar confirmed it with a twitch of one grand eyebrow, as if it were as simple as that to just up and leave the routine Peter had been fighting so hard to build for himself. Which it was, really. It wouldn't even be the first time. He patted Peter's neck gently, watching that dark hair fall back into his face. “You can't adjust to this life because it's not _yours_. You and me? We were never cut out for a working nine 'til five, dinner's at seven, visit the parents at weekends kind of life. We weren't made to be normal, Peter, we were made for so much more. You _know_ this.”

*

The words tumbling from those lips sounded strange at first, a forgotten, familiar truth, but as they sank in they revealed themselves to be the missing pieces that Peter had been failing to operate without. Of course he had thought of it, but it had always been something far away, something for later, something that he'd say he'd get around to but never actually would. He couldn't outrun the knowledge that his life was a constant roller coaster of crazy, but it wasn't until Sylar had put it so plainly that it really made sense that he could let go of the things that weren't working. Like trying to squeeze into a shoe ten sizes too small, no wonder Peter felt out of place and wrong in this day to day 'life'... because he didn'tbelong here.

He couldn't help that saving the world had felt so much easier than re-learning to cross a busy street; or choose that running for his life wasn't as scary as waiting in a long line for coffee and fearing he couldn't remember how to count a currency he'd had no need for over the past five years. Peter hadn't been back behind the wheel of a car since breaking free of the mind prison. A passenger in an ambulance or taxi had been the closest to it, but why would he ever choose such a scary, clumsy mode of transportation when he could fly without wings? It was freedom he craved, more than power. But then why had he willingly stayed cooped up in the tower when he been wearing the key around his neck the entire time...?

*

“But – Hesam – Emma. I can't just...” Peter tried weakly, but Sylar knew he was breaking the surface of the ocean he had been drowning in lately. Sylar could practically smell this revelation wafting deliciously off his companion, could see him coming back into himself in a way he hadn't for weeks now. He tightened his hold on Peter slightly, encouragingly, smiling fully for the first time in days.

Wasn't this supposed to be temporary anyway, until something else came up? Until the world needed saving again? Until there was an issue that needed fixing or a call to arms was announced for these two heroes desperate to answer it? And if today's... _scenario_... could be classed as anything, it certainly fit the bill they'd been waiting for.

Sylar didn't bother to indulge Peter's pitiful attempt to argue with the destiny he was yearning after, instead just flashed the man a knowing glance that he literally felt shiver down his scorching skin in response. Having successfully drawn the smaller man back from the deadly ledge for now, Sylar changed the subject with another clap to his friend's neck, this time in a parting gesture. He then bent to scoop up the tangle of wires that had used to be Renautas observational equipment from the coffee table, thrumming over the new information that had barged in here along with Peter Petrelli.

So at last it had started, the next chapter in their lives beyond the confines of simply 'waiting it out'. And Sylar's brain itched delightedly for a challenge, a chance to stretch its legs after being cooped up in the unfulfilling corner for so long. That video... it was real. Which meant that, as unfortunate as it was, the perpetrator _did_ resemble Sylar enough to warrant the confusion over this whole ordeal. And that someone _had_ tampered with the rig deliberately. So, for all intents and purposes (as much as Sylar didn't want to think it), Daddy Bennet might have truly believed that person to be Sylar.

“Lets say that, for arguments sake, Noah genuinely thinks _I_ blew up the rig...” Sylar lofted the disabled microphones in his palm, curling the wires absent-mindedly around his fingers. “That means he had nothing to do with it.”

“But someone _else_ did...”

*

Although the whole Sylar identity crisis had been hastily cleared up between the pair for now, today's ordeal was far from over. No matter _who_ was on that video, all that mattered was that someone _was_. And the culprit was responsible for every single ripple that had spread from their actions: all those people had still died today; their families would be without their sons, daughters, mothers and fathers; not to mention Sylar and Peter's lives had been thrown into disrepair... but for what reason?

It just didn't make sense – why would anyone want to make this horrific statement for no apparent gain? Then happily pass the blame onto an innocent man? Peter would have perhaps suspected an evo rights group – maybe one that had upped the ante as Claire had been worried about – but what was the point of protesting if they didn't take credit for their actions? If only life came with an instruction manual, Peter huffed, pacing on the spot and habitually running his fingers through his still slightly damp, freshly washed hair. Why wasn't there a map or something that could be looked back on from a distance to make sense of the road already travelled? To maybe catch some crucial information that nobody had seen coming the fist time...?

Then suddenly the memory cracked like a light bulb igniting and Peter froze on the spot, mid-step.

*

The shared, contemplative moment between the two men was shattered when Peter turned and bolted into his bedroom almost faster that Sylar had seen him move before without flying. He jumped, watching the glass double doors swing in the man's wake. What the hell?

“Peter?” Sylar followed his friend, shocked, intrigued and worried that he had finally cracked all at once. The watchmaker stood by the door as the paramedic heaved his mattress off its new bed frame without hesitation, dropped to his knees and buried himself in the revealed stash of paper.

Damn, Sylar hadn't even thought to check there on his earlier hunt of the apartment, but was gratified to see no wired devices anywhere to be found... instead the entire expanse of the frame was strewn with Peter's half of the prophetic drawings created after the carnival. There they had lain all this time, secretly stored in the place where anyone else might hide more incriminating or private items, within easy reach and never far from the empath's awareness.

And then Sylar saw past the frenzied state of the youngest Petrelli family member to witness a sure determination the likes of which Peter hadn't possessed in a long time. He was on a mission. And he knew exactly where to go.

*

Ripping his way through the dozens of images, Peter's mind's eye was projecting his goal across his vision as clear as day. He was _so_ sure... but hopes and desires have a way of warping memories, and before Peter put his full faith in this plan he had to _know_...! It had been here somewhere... lost amongst the others, back before, when it hadn't meant anything. But as for _now_...

Peter cursed himself for not thinking of this earlier. The future had been on his mind every second for hours, days and even weeks, but not _once_ since news of the explosion had broken had he remembered that he might've been sitting on the answers all along!

The loud rustling of paper sounded out in the otherwise quiet apartment, amplifying the empath's desperation, playing as the furious soundtrack for his mission – until Peter stopped, his heart tightened in his throat and the racket crinkled into silence.

So, he hadn't been imagining it, or enhancing the memory for this own needs after all.

Unable to find his voice once more today, Peter just turned on his knees and held the prized prophecy out for Sylar, a question for an authenticator, another pair of eyes to confirm the same spectacle that Peter couldn't quite trust just yet.

*

For precious seconds, Sylar just stared at the drawing. Then he relieved it from Peter's shaking hand, letting the numerable possible interpretations run through his mind before finally settling on the truth: there they were, plain as day – himself and Peter. Standing beneath the full, unbroken, towering height of what, last time, had been only indiscernible scribbles of pencil. But what now, through the enlightening lens of context, was unmistakably the very same oil rig that had haunted both men all afternoon.

“How is that possible? We weren't there...” Sylar mumbled, dropping the page to meet bright, purposeful and oh-so-familiar hazel eyes.

“No.” Peter's voice was gravelly, influenced and alight with a wonderful motivation that Sylar hadn't heard him use in a long time. “Not _yet_.”

*

It was all spiralling away ahead of him and Peter could see it all blocked out so clearly. Sylar had been right before – he _could_ do more than he'd been able to at the hospital if only he embraced the superhuman abilities that had been gifted to him for a reason! Healing blood had been useful today, yes, but what need would there be for it if nobody was even hurt in the first place...?

Sylar, however, seemed to be taking the long route to the same brilliant conclusion. “What happened to 'it's too dangerous'?”

Riding the rejuvenating crest of purpose and adventure that coursed up to meet him, Peter clambered to his feet and hurried to stand almost toe to toe with the former killer. “Don't you see?! All this?” He exclaimed, his hands gesturing wildly before him. “The explosion, all the innocent lives that were lost today, _your_ reputation...? We could change it all! ...We're supposed to _fix_ everything!” He croaked, enjoying the light-headedness that had accompanied this revelation. It was as if everything was finally about to go right, the planets were aligning and at long fucking last, Peter was staring down the road he was supposed to follow for a change.

The two men shared the wave of understanding, destiny and thrill that encompassed them both at once, an old friend returned after a long hiatus. If this was it? What they were supposed to _do_? Then for the first time in a very long time, Peter felt the first spark of, well... _belonging_ flare to life within his chipped and bruised heart. And it was the most marvellous sensation the likes of which he almost didn't recognise.

But before he could enjoy even one more second of it, a faint, metallic _click_ from outside the front door alerted both men. They weren't alone anymore.

*

It was a split-second warning, barely long enough for Peter and Sylar to dodge together out of the direct line of fire before the door burst off its hinges and slammed to the floor. And then dozens of armoured men spilled forth into the apartment.

Unlike earlier that day, there was no warning, no hesitance and no pretence of protocol – instead everything blew apart all at once in the ricochetting chaos of stampeding feet, shouting voices and splintering gunfire.

Just when things were starting to make sense! Just when everything was finally falling into place?! Furious at being found, interrupted, and at a second such attack today, Sylar jabbed a sharp lash of telekinesis at the intruders and their weapons, envisaging them crumpling in a heap like before... but this time, nothing happened. He tried again. And again, but to no result each time. What?! His abilities...?!

Sylar shrank back instinctively, suddenly feeling very naked without this crucial part of him. It was too loud in here to think straight, too crowded to strategize appropriately, but Sylar was well and truly aware of the gaping void within his body where his precious powers should be but weren't.

“That's enough!”

The telltale voice proceeded the man in horn-rimmed glasses before he rounded the smashed-in door frame, closely shadowed by a second ominous silhouette. René, the Haitian, stood large in the compact space, drawing all the energy in the room like air into himself with ease, and then Sylar realised why he'd temporarily lost his powers. His telekinesis, his shape-shifting, his lie-detection, flight, clairsentience and regeneration to name a few... But then why wasn't he hurting from all those gunshots? Surely _one_ would have hit its mark? Unless... unless they were never aiming at him in the first place...

Ice clenched around Sylar's heart as he locked eyes with Peter, just a step or so out of reach. Those hazel orbs looked confused, startled, as if something only slightly irritating had just transpired... and not that a wet darkness was seeping from a gaping hole in his heaving, mortal torso. The empath wavered on the spot slightly, still standing where he'd bravely thrown himself, supposed to be invincible, between Sylar and their many attackers.

A solitary trickle of blood ran down his asymmetrical lower lip like a full stop to finalise the deed. A choked, spluttered gasp resonated through the now ringing silence of the place. Then no more sound left the little man as the full picture slowly made sense to both him and his horrified, petrified friend who could do nothing whatsoever to stop it.

Peter...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright everyone! Sorry again for the delay, but I hope the wait wasn't too long X) I can't wait to get launched into the rest of the story, and I am trying my best to do so as soon as possible! Until the next update however, I'm afraid I'll just have to leave you all here at this rather inopportune moment. Goddamned Noah, barging in at all the wrong times...! All will be explained though, I can promise ^.^
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and that you check back for the next one! Don't be afraid to tell me what you thought, I will reply to each and every comment you are kind enough to leave ^.^
> 
> Please check out Yajanele's beautiful fan art of this chapter over on DeviantArt! http://yajanele.deviantart.com/art/Tongues-of-Fire-understanding-669416936


	9. Destiny Calls

Noah stood proud and strong as his eyes adjusted to the scene before him.

There they were, standing roughly an arm's distance apart: two silhouettes imprinted against the naked window and the outside world that they'd both had a hand in breaking today. Noah's team had fallen obediently still to each side, their weapons trained but silent now as the company man stepped forward to take centre stage. This had better be the last time he hunted this prize! Thankfully, Noah had a feeling that he'd be welcomed back at base tonight with a generous bonus and that head for his mantle at long last...

His morbid thoughts were broken by another shuddering breath that cracked the heavy silence of the room. But this time the sound hadn't come from the _injured_ target.

*

Sylar started forwards in disbelief, a hand outstretched before him and his eyes glued to the blood dirtying Peter's just freshly washed skin all over again. The man was still swaying, watching with perplexed helplessness, fighting for breath and deteriorating right before Sylar's horrified eyes. Just a second ago he'd been so full of life, so possessed by that glorious, familiar tenacity that compiled his whole person... and now...

Sylar had to help somehow! He had to _fix_ him! It was what he was good at, it was what he _did_ –

“Ah-ah!” Noah warned, raising his gun not at the killer, but once again at the wounded paramedic. Sylar knew it was part of a plan, was only a threat to make him stop, but of course he obliged. He relented quicker than he would have done if that barrel had been pointing at himself.

“Noah...” Sylar croaked, bewildered, his fingers still hovering in Peter's direction. “What're you _doing_...?!” He was so stunned by the ridiculousness of this entire scene that he couldn't find it within himself to be angry yet. He couldn't even comprehend the agents lining the walls or the stoic, black figure shadowing Noah like the trusty weapon he was.

“You gave me no other choice, Gabriel.”

“You're _wrong!_ I didn't do anything –”

“I'd suggest you stop talking before you make things worse for yourself. And here I thought you were supposed to be intelligent?” The spectacled man said silkily, contempt flowing behind his lenses like tar. Maybe someone less accustomed to such an expression wouldn't be able to see the distinction, but Sylar could: it was genuine. Genuine enough for him to finally, reluctantly, admit that Bennet really _did_ think him guilty of today's tragedy. Which meant there would be no dissuading him.

Panic thundered through Sylar's veins as he turned back to Peter once again and was shaken by the sight of thick, rich blood coating his lips and glistening down his chin. In that moment Sylar almost roared. This was to be his repayment for sparing Bennet this afternoon?! After leaving him unharmed?! It was just so _wrong_. So unexpected! Sylar would never have doubted the agent's ruthlessness in shooting _him!_ But _Peter_...?!

*

Was it always this painful? Right now he wasn't sure. Perhaps it wasn't just the bullet in his gut that was tearing Peter to shreds, perhaps it was having that previous, wonderful moment of meaningfulness ripped from him before he could even chase it? He'd been so _sure_... so _certain_ that things were starting to go right...

Suddenly he felt weightless, foggy, like he was shrinking or flying away backwards while watching the whole scenario unfold before him from afar. If he wasn't already familiar with the sensation of dying, he might have worried this was it. But it wasn't. It was just weakness, loneliness, wanting nothing more than to be held through the chilling fear and told things were alright but knowing he couldn't be.

He wanted to reach back at Sylar, squeeze those pink fingers tight if only for the reassurance that he wasn't alone as he faded from awareness. However it was hard enough to stay standing as it was, and his medical training had evaporated without a trace, leaving only shock in its wake. Peter couldn't remember the proper procedure for gunshot wounds to the stomach, so he just worked on simple, human instinct and clamped his hands over the crippling source of agony in his abdomen as if by pressing tightly enough it might counteract the pain. It didn't.

“You're going to be fine, Peter.” Noah's calm voice flowed into Peter's awareness, groggy at first. Then the next words landed clearly enough that he would have suspected his insides had disappeared had they not been literally oozing out into his hands. “I'm sorry it had to come to this. Just let us sedate _him_ and we'll let you heal. You can still walk away from this... if you hand him over. Your choice.”

Seeing his own terror in Sylar's eyes, slowly everything clunked into place in Peter's mind. How could he have been so stupid...?! The workshop, the hospital... Noah had never lost track of Sylar. He'd just thrown fuel on the fire, planted the seed of doubt, done enough damage to ensure he sent Peter right to this very spot. To Sylar. To be used as bait... as leverage. He should've seen it coming... he should've been smarter...

“Noa... h-he – didn... d- it...” Peter tried to insist, but the only thing that rushed up his throat was a stream of blood that burned like acid on the way out.

*

A fracture ran through Noah's unaffected persona when Peter succumbed to a painful coughing fit. Dammit, the rookie team had been careless and hurt him too badly! This was precisely why he had been arguing to the higher ups for more experienced agents! It was alright though, this didn't change the plan. It just narrowed the deadline.

“Peter...!” Noah prompted warningly and lofted his gun, glancing at Sylar when he again made to cross to the groaning, panting man's side. The agent had no intentions of actually _killing_ his own sort-of-pseudo-family, of course. But Sylar didn't need to know that in order to keep him in tow. Danger was positively emanating from the murderer like palpable heat, and he looked maybe more threatening now than he had done for a good few years: caught in place and imprisoned by the invisible chains of a weakness being manipulated. Finally the tables were turned! Noah almost couldn't believe it was actually _working,_ that Sylar could possibly _care_ enough about someone else to co-operate here! But it was and apparently he did, and Noah knew better than to ruin his plan through questioning the details. There was plenty time for that later. Even if this man's friendship with Peter was still a thorn in Noah's side, at least it had its silver lining...

That was, unless things were taking a less than ideal turn. The empath's trembling, curled form was draining uncomfortably fast, and he still showed no signs of giving in, or even doing much more than fighting with everything he had to stay on his own two feet. Surely he wasn't actually willing to bleed out for that son of a bitch?! Naturally, the conclusion that Peter Petrelli valued his own life less than others – including strangers', including _Noah's –_ wasn't a new one. But dying to save... this, the man who had massacred his way through Peter's family like a tornado, couldn't have been more different than dying to save an innocent young girl from that very same savage once upon a time!

Angela had said nothing of this.

Surely she wouldn't have tipped him off, wouldn't have told Noah about her dream or sent him the footage of Sylar at the rig if she'd known Peter would die once they followed this thread? She may be a severe, intimidating woman with questionable morals, but in the end her deeds all came down to doing what was best for either one or both of her sons. And now that Nathan was gone, Noah had a hard time believing that Mrs Petrelli would so easily lose her only remaining family. She would have foreseen Peter's death if it were to be, surely? And yet had never mentioned it, which must be a good sign. She'd never been wrong in the past, Noah assured himself, and so chose to believe that this plan _was_ going to work. It had to.

There wasn't the option of letting Peter heal before getting hands on Sylar, or Noah knew without a doubt both himself and his entire team would be wiped out by the enraged, telekinetic killing machine within seconds. But the younger man was still slipping at a worrying pace, so, changing tactic, Noah spoke the next words pointedly in Sylar's direction. “Quickly now, Peter! Claire would never forgive me if you died!”

*

 _Died. Peter._ Just the two words in proximity were enough to snap Sylar out of his dazed state of uselessness. It couldn't be, not Peter, not the only good thing Sylar had ever had! Not after the little man had survived so much, cheated death so many times already; not after everything they'd fought through to finally get to this stage; all those years together, all those endless days and nights... Tearing his gaze from his friend and into the company man's now repaired glasses, Sylar diluted his encompassing fear into anger.

They were supposed to save the world... they were supposed to fix everything...

“Bennet. _Don't_.” He growled, trying not to break apart in front of the enemy. Another choking retch from Peter rolled a fresh batch of shivers down Sylar's spine. “You've got it all _wrong_.” He glared with everything he had, forcing himself not to blink his itching, stinging eyes. His arm was still wavering in the air, never having reached its destination, but he couldn't bear to withdraw it.

“I think it's too late for negotiating, don't you?” Noah said, standing with professional resolve and not one tremor in his gun hand.

The smug bugger had planned it all! Right from the moment he'd seen those drawings in Sylar's workshop! Noah had laid the groundwork meticulously: it was slapped all over that twisted smirk. Sylar's stomach plummeted when he realised right then that he was bound to the path forced upon him. Because he knew what was coming next. And he knew he had no other choice.

Noah's smirk tightened. Oh, how Sylar fucking hated him. “That is... unless you're suddenly willing to come quietly?”

*

Oh god... it hurt, it _hurt._ Definitely more than usual because this time there was no guarantee of recovering. The knowledge alone that this wasn't about to get better exploded Peter's every nerve ending into further crackles of pain. It wasn't as bad as the shotgun to the chest he'd endured before, but at the same time he'd succumbed to that wound too quickly to dwell on the pain, or the sensation of bleeding to death. This time, however...

His limbs were trembling outside his control and his throat was wet and sticky and searing as it regurgitated more hot liquid in hollowing bursts like vomit. He couldn't feel his legs, couldn't breathe, couldn't talk, was choking on his own blood and he fucking hurt everywhere like a sizzling poker to the skin. It wasn't just the bodily pain that was eating him up – it was the humiliation, too. The heartbreak at not being able to stop this, not being able to _help_. And at being the catalyst that had made it all possible in the first place.

Peter was no stranger to physical ailments, and even now he battled through the haze of affliction and lack of oxygen to draw Sylar's eyes unto him as if by sheer will. Words failed him so he weakly shook his head to get his point across instead, reading even from his companion's hazy, blurred face the unthinkable, the impossible, what even until now he hadn't quite had the nerve to believe: Sylar was seriously considering turning himself in. For Peter.

But no! He was _innocent!_ If Primatech had been the warm up, and Renautas was the finals, then Peter could only imagine the sorts of... _detainment_ they had in mind for a man who couldn't be easily disposed of. And there was no way in hell or heaven or even the purgatory of their shared dream that Peter was going to let that happen! Even if he was currently slipping from consciousness, seriously losing his balance and unable to access the ability that could save him.

*

“Is he really worth it...?” Noah kneaded. Sylar couldn't tell who he was addressing that time, him or Peter, but he had his answer anyway. All he needed was one more glance at the rivulets of blood dripping between his only friend's long, pale fingers to know. It was a no brainer.

Before Sylar could even form a vocal confession, Peter drew in a long, struggling breath, his first in too long. Sylar watched as courage caressed his deathly white face and determination flashed in his eyes, and in that extended, prolonged, slowed down second before anything else happened... he read the little man's full intention from one twitch of his body.

All Sylar could do was prepare to catch him as Peter hurled himself clumsily across the space and slammed into Sylar hard enough to wind him and send them both reeling. He heard more deafening gunshots, felt something hard and cold hit his back... then shatter and disappear. And suddenly there was nothing but icy wind in his ears and a warm body in his arms as the window zipped up into the night sky above and shards of glass floated past his face.

The fall should have been terrifying. Should have been a horrific final deed for these now mortal men. Instead it was surreal, like a hallucination, like it wasn't really happening. Maybe Sylar had accidentally fallen asleep back in the apartment and dreamed the whole ambush? Maybe this dizzying lurch behind his navel was really just him waking up...?

The sensation was unmatched, more thrilling than flying because there were no certainties here except the inevitable pull of gravity. It was an exquisite experience in its own way, an adrenaline high unlike any Sylar had experienced in years. The former killer felt himself be swept along by the jostling air around him as he plummeted almost in slow motion, entranced and stunned all at once by the sudden drop, the possibility that this could be the end of everything... and the realisation that Peter would rather die this way than let Renautas get him.

Only Peter Petrelli would be foolish enough to do this, Sylar thought, grabbing despairingly at nothing as the familiar body was ripped out of his hold by the fall. He knew he should've been angry at the stupid little idiot for pushing him out a window, but somehow he couldn't be mad about it. Instead he just watched in awe as his only friend soared gracefully through the sky beside him: so gentle, resigned, beautiful in his descent rather than flailing around like Sylar knew he was currently. But that was because Peter was hurt. That was because Peter was dying.

At least he looked peaceful. At least they were going out together. Sylar drank in the sight of the empath just in case he never had the chance to again: his dark hair dancing as if underwater, his eyes closed, face serene like he was merely asleep although his shining, ruby red lips gave it away... he made it look so easy... like he belonged up here in the sky, where it had all began. The sudden reminder of that first, fateful jump years ago resonated through Sylar so vividly that he completely forgot it wasn't his own memory. He remembered flying up to catch this young man; then he remembered being pulled over the side of a school by him; carrying him through the sky to Haiti; slipping from his grasp and falling the height of the hospital; then soaring together towards flashing, neon, carnival lights in the distance... it was always Peter. Sylar had never shared the sky with anyone else. It was fitting, in that way.

Maybe it was destiny that they end this relationship the exact same way it started back in Texas? At least Sylar couldn't think of a better way for death to take him, even if he wasn't ready. He wouldn't choose to be beside anyone other than this human being who was here with him now, yet just out of reach.

Although he felt like he'd already fallen a hundred miles, and the ground was definitely racing up behind him, Sylar couldn't make himself fathom it properly. He didn't know what to expect. Didn't know how much time he had left. All he was aware of as he ungracefully tumbled through the sky was that he couldn't possibly take his eyes off P –

*

Looking down on the two bodies lying entangled on the ground, Noah's knuckles whitened on the windowsill. He could feel all eyes on him from behind, but wasn't quite ready to face them yet.

There was still time to salvage this. There was still time...

*

Slowly, he became aware that there was hard, cracked concrete under his cheek. A brisk wind tugging his hair. Something warm at his side. And then pain exploded everywhere.

Peter heaved air into his repairing, draining lungs like nectar, like water after a drought, coughing and blinking away the clammy fog of death from his being. His entire body continued to sting and ache as he wriggled to get his hands under him enough to push up from the blood-soaked road that had evidently broken his fall.

With a pained, echoing cry he waited out the process of his skeleton putting itself back together, scrunched up his eyes and clenched his fists against the cold ground as copper ripped through his healing skin anew. A little chorus of _clinks_ echoed around the street as the initial bullet fell from his torso, closely followed by the last few shot after him as he'd crashed through the glass before. It was never an enjoyable experience coming back to life, but Peter rode it out with gritted teeth until the knitting of his flesh stopped and there was nothing left but the raw, numb, tingling sensation throbbing and pulsing all over.

“ _Tell me_...” The panting growl to his right drew Peter's full attention, and he thankfully took in the sight of an equally bloody and disgruntled Sylar. “ _Tell_ me you knew we'd heal.”

Peter answered only with a guilty look, shakily getting to his feet and helping Sylar up. At least it had worked though, right? At least they'd both gotten out of there together. He didn't even want to think what might have happened if Renautas had got its claws on Sylar... Peter glowered up at his now broken window high above, where two dark shapes stood watching them. He didn't know the full range of Rene's ability, but it seemed Peter's hunch had been proven right, and that the height of a New York City apartment block was no match for him. Thankfully.

Sylar appeared at his shoulder, grateful eyes burning into Peter's back. The empath recognised and stored the unspoken relief and worry there – he knew how panic-stricken Sylar had been back in the apartment, and would never forget why he'd almost wrongfully sacrificed himself. Peter's heart was still racing from the adrenaline, regeneration, and perhaps something else too, but right now wasn't the time to broach such fragile topics.

“Where the hell did you get _that_ idea anyway?” Sylar chided, his tone irritated, a mask for the emotions Peter could presently feel exuding from him.

“Claire.”

“Huh, might've known. She _does_ love a dramatic exit.” Peter turned to see Sylar rolling his eyes and attempting to wipe blood from his temple with his sleeve.

“Lets get outta here...” With a light hold on the taller man's elbow, Peter started them off running out of sight of their observers. Noah had been right – it seemed it _was_ too late for negotiating. They were past that stage now, outlaws by choice this time. For despite the bounty on their heads, there was still an explosion to stop. With or without Renautas' blessing.

*

As the troops clanged their way down the fire escape, Noah watched the two shadows disappear into the darkness of the night. Just as well this seasoned man was an expert at masking his emotions, because a tantrum wouldn't exactly do him any favours. Goddammit! Noah hadn't listened to the third party doubts because this time all angles had been covered: the bait, the element of surprise, Rene...! And, truthfully, he had been too invested, his ego too bruised, to take Sylar down any other way than _his_ way. Noah had put the most time into this chase, didn't he deserve to win on his own means? But now it seemed it was back to the drawing board for what must've been the hundredth time concerning that damned, slippery watchmaker.

Clearing his throat, Noah finally met the probing gaze of his old friend. “ _Don't_ say 'I told you so'.” He warned, wishing he'd given the man's earlier advice more thought.

 _René_ 's dark eyes just blinked knowingly.

 

***

 

Sirens screamed and music blared, car horns wailed and raised voices filtered through the walls of the surrounding buildings. It was a city soundtrack like all the others, but one unique to only New York at night. The moon was nowhere to be seen tonight beneath dusty clouds, the air chilled, the darkness heavy and thick. Therefore, very easy to get lost in.

Nobody passed who could have paid any attention to the two men running together through the shadows, both bloody and dishevelled, one sporting conspicuous holes in his jacket – the other, his beloved sweater. Two pairs of feet sounded out through the empty back streets of the city and were quickly swallowed up in the ruckus of life pressing in from all sides.

Peter tried not to think that this was the first time in a _long_ time he'd strayed further than his route to and from work at night, and pushed back the tingling anxiety at the over-populated, unfamiliar area. Now was _not_ the time. There was a much more important matter at hand here, one that should hopefully distract him from having to think about living out of place ever again. Or at least for a while.

*

Finally, Peter and Sylar ducked into a hidden alley, cocooned between towering walls and shielded from prying eyes. Peter instantly sagged back against rough brick to catch his breath while Sylar bent double, having both ran non-stop far beyond any potential pursuit.

Sylar was oddly grateful for his weather-inappropriate attire, and allowed the wind to brush through his sweater and cool his heated skin. “So...” He sighed as regeneration swiftly eased his burning muscles. “What now?”

“We go back.” Peter panted, straightening up and pushing his hair off his face. “Back to before the explosion.”

Suddenly a _bang_ and an angry shout echoed from an apartment overhead, causing Peter to flinch... it was only a door slamming. There was a second of alarm before the little man subconsciously inched closer to Sylar, and re-affirmed the determination on his face. The watchmaker hid the sympathy from his expression, instead focusing on his present enquiry. “You're still sure? After what just happened?”

“More than ever.” Peter insisted, his gaze subtly darting around the shadows, the high windows lining each side of the alley and the open end unfolding out into the street. “All those people don't have to die, Sylar.” Seemingly satisfied that they were, in fact, alone here, Peter turned his dazzling eyes to the watchmaker. “...And Noah doesn't have to be hunting you.”

It was noble and touching that he would go to such lengths to preserve Sylar's, and everyone else's, best interests. But at the same time, the intelligent man just wanted to be sure that this decision was one truly thought through, and not one that Peter was jumping into wildly with the best of intentions but no rationale, just because he was craving a chance to prove himself. It wouldn't be the first time, after all, and the fallout from their actions here could be colossal whichever way it went. What if Bennet and his new puppet-master organization breaking and entering a private apartment, getting scarily close to killing Peter _and_ capturing Sylar was the best case scenario out of all possible timelines? It had seemed like such a great idea before, to go back, and while of course Sylar still wanted to save the day and be heroes... at heart he wasn't a spontaneous man who would just jump blindly and hope for the best.

That's not to say he wouldn't unwittingly be pushed, though. Evidently. “What if we make things worse?” He asked quietly, catching the shadow of a frown that flitted across Peter's brow. “What if we go back, and _that_ makes the rig explode in the first place?”

For a moment Peter was silent, worrying, thinking, before he shook his head. “No. If we _don't_ go back, there'll be no chance of ever fixing it. At least this way they have a _chance._ ”

True, that thinking seemed sound enough, but still Sylar wasn't quite satisfied. He approached the topic delicately, cautious of shooting down the first flash of ambition Peter had responded to in weeks. “You want to preserve the future we drew, right?” The guy nodded, absorbing every millimetre of Sylar's face as he visibly wound up tighter inside in concern. “Time is so delicate, it just seems illogical to mess with things, therefore changing _this_ timeline in an attempt to make the future we predicted in _this_ present happen –”

“Alright, Spock...” Peter scoffed gently, pacing away a step in thought. When he turned back, half-hidden in darkness and just a tiny shape in this huge wide world, the light in his eyes illuminated the alley like two little hopeful flames. “I know. Okay, I _know_ it's dangerous. Yeah, all this time travel stuff is confusing, but what isn't is that we _already_ drew that timeline. We're _supposed_ to go back. Jimmy, the Mills and all the other victims... they're relying on us, Sylar! It's you and me – nobody else is gonna help them if we don't do this!” Those flames glowed brighter then, purer, deliciously stimulating Sylar's sweet spot in unison with their owner's soft, gravelly tone. “Please, just... I can't do this without you.”

His idea still possessed the citrus flavour of passion overriding logic, but the tingling truth had dripped from Peter's red stained lips and into the hidden alcove within Sylar that longed to be wanted. _Needed_. How could he turn down his big moment, the chance he'd been waiting for (even, secretly, before starting on his path to redemption)? And how could he say no to that face and those words and that sentiment? One of the most stupid, but also charming, things about the youngest Petrelli was that he trusted his heart more than anything his brain would ever come up with. And, for better or worse, Sylar trusted Peter.

*

His pulse was tickling through his limbs like swirling feather dusters, the wait excruciating as Peter put his all into willing Sylar to be with him on this. It was time already! Ever since Claire had jumped in Central Park, Peter had been holding himself back from this very moment, ignoring his screaming instincts and instead listening to the outside voices of authority. He knew what he wanted and he knew what needed doing, but he had hardly waited this long only to disregard the most important opinion at the final hurdle...

So when Sylar's eyebrows dropped by a millimetre, Peter felt himself grow heavy with relief and gratitude. “Alright.” The taller man conceded, an exhilarated smile prodding at his lips. “I'm in.”

Peter only nodded, beyond words and instead thanking his friend silently through his expression. He could feel it already, silkily coiling around his veins and kicking in like the sublime first hit of a drug: it was starting again. A mission. A real, live adventure the likes of setting off into the world to stop New York from exploding or the Shanti Virus from being released, and there was no description to convey how much Peter had _missed_ that. He was going to _help_ people! He was going to make a _difference_! He was finally going to be able to sprint as full a distance as he was capable, and not just laps around the too constricting play pen of the hospital. Sure, it was never the most fun of circumstances to be on the run or a hunt or chase and away from home for weeks or months at a time, but that didn't mean it wasn't _right_. Sylar's words rang around Peter's head, echoing in their truth: _'We weren't made to be normal, Peter, we were made for so much more'_... finally, after weeks of failing to blend in to this “life”, after years of fighting that brick wall to get back to this, Peter was more than ready to get going! And now with Sylar willingly by his side, there was nothing left standing in the way...!

Caught up on the crest of adrenaline and nerves and anticipation, Peter's hands shook as he fumbled into his pocket and drew out his phone... only to endure all those wonderful fluttery feelings disappearing in a painful puff of smoke.

Shit... He stared, blinking helplessly down at the cracked screen and broken, twisted parts that should have made up the device. No! No...! It must've been the fall... And now he'd lost the only segue into the next stage, the only contact to Hiro Nakamura... the only way to undo everything... Starting to panic, Peter turned pleadingly to his friend. “D'you have...?” Peter meant to ask 'd'you have Hiro's number?', even though he knew Sylar didn't, but the man surprised him by reaching over and scooping the broken phone out of Peter's hand without warning or invitation.

Confused, the paramedic trailed Sylar as he sourced the best column of light in the dim alley and hunkered down cross-legged on the cold ground. What...?

“It's alright. This shouldn't take too long...” Sylar murmured, carefully laying down the plastic shell and dispersing the shattered contents beside it. It took an embarrassingly long time for Peter to realise what the guy was doing, what every deliberate, diligent twitch of a raised finger meant, why he was concentrating so intensely on the phone.

And suddenly Peter almost couldn't breathe with gratitude. Not just because Sylar was repairing their only lifeline to fixing the past, but because he was doing so with a calmness, patience and perseverance that Peter knew he didn't possess himself. He stood behind the man on the ground, really _looking_ at him while his attention was elsewhere. Peter had never been too good with words, but wished he had the capacity to voice how much he valued Sylar's strength. The way he so naturally always just got down to it without complaint, how genuinely willing to help he was, and how he would put aside his own desires for Peter's if need be. Sometimes it was without a single word being uttered, sometimes it was after a very vocal fight, but Sylar was always there exactly when Peter needed him. And he always knew the right thing to say. To do. It was in times like this when the paramedic couldn't even begin to associate his brother's murderer with the best friend he'd ever had.

Only now that they were safely out of range of Bennet for the present, the full connotations of the ordeal back at his apartment walloped Peter all at once like an oversized mallet. It wasn't falling to his death and reviving, again, that shook him most (although, he had to admit, this time was a little harder to shake off than the others); it was how narrowly he'd avoided watching Sylar be dragged to the gallows before his eyes. The guy had been _this_ close to handing himself over for Peter's sake... He felt sick at the thought of it. Had no clue what he'd have done with himself if Sylar had been – actually, that wasn't true. Obviously he'd have gone to rescue him. But what if he'd been too late? Or unable to save him...?

“Hey –” Peter cleared his throat. “...Thanks.” He managed quietly, grateful for the darkness disguising his burning cheeks.

A light chuckle came from the hunched shape of Sylar. “No problem. It's a little tricky without proper tools but trust me, I deal with more complicated jobs than this ten times a day at work. We're lucky: it's just superficial damage –”

“No.” Before Peter even noticed, he was crossing the rough asphalt and slipping a hand over Sylar's shoulder from behind, squeezing gently. “ _Thank you_. For back there. You didn't have to – you shouldn't have...” The watchmaker's face tipped up this time, the humour fading from his mouth and his dark eyes glistening with sincerity.

“You'd have done the same for me.”

Peter felt his eyebrows twist without his consent, his throat close and his facial muscles tighten, and he said nothing. He couldn't, anyway, just hoped to convey his swelling heart through the warmth of his palm and a slight crinkle of his eyes. Sylar smiled warmly in reply. They must look a state, Peter thought suddenly: slinking away down alleyways at night having just been shot, killed and resurrected. He didn't care. He was verging dangerously close to either crying on Sylar or hugging him – both options were a little embarrassing and inappropriate at this vital moment where fate hung in the balance, but Peter could feel his resolve slipping by the second.

Thankfully, the reformed villain turned back to his intricate task, slotting the last piece into place with a small “ah” of satisfaction. Grateful for the distraction, Peter stepped back and forced himself not to relent to his emotional cravings in order to allow Sylar the space to untangle his long legs, climb to his feet and hold out the now perfectly working, although still cracked, phone.

*

“Destiny awaits.” Sylar chimed, watching fondly as Peter took the device without so much as brushing Sylar's fingers with his own, then quickly set about switching the thing on. Suddenly the guy was engrossed in his work, but Sylar could still feel those eyes upon him. Could still feel that burning palm imprinted on his shoulder. He glowed inside. It was always a luxury to be appreciated, nobody else ever thanked him for anything – even Elle hadn't uttered a word in thanks when he'd had his throat slit to allow her escape! So yes, it was a luxury, one that Sylar was pretty sure would never grow old. He really hoped it wouldn't.

As he watched his friend's familiar form doing nothing but simply standing there by his side, he was hit by just how immeasurably relieved he was that the guy had yet again evaded the Grim Reaper. Even if just narrowly. Although he wasn't about to actually say it, Sylar had been a million times more horrified by his friend's brush with death than the deadly disaster that they were going to all this bother to reverse. It might be awful of him, it might not be very heroic or honourable, but Sylar knew that if he had to, he would trade the lives of those strangers for Peter's in a heartbeat. It was a hidden thought, that little guilty voice that stood strong on its position despite not speaking up unless prompted, but it was there all the same. Not a very encouraging thought for the progress he thought he'd been making in nobility.

Changing this train of thought from one so inflicting, Sylar dragged his awareness back to the here and now. And what they were really about to do. The realisation that Hiro Nakamura could well be standing here in a second washed over him suddenly, and an unwelcome flock of frantic, fluttering creatures stirred to life in his stomach. Talking of _honourable_... “Do you think he'll answer this time?” He asked nonchalantly.

“...I dunno. Hopefully.” Peter confessed, glancing up briefly. Shit, it was obvious from that look that Sylar hadn't been as successful in hiding his nerves as he'd intended. He threw on a neutral, patient expression, but it was too late and he knew he'd been read already. Mercifully, Peter didn't push the topic. “D'you wanna go see if the coast is clear?” He asked softly.

Although it was embarrassing to blatantly accept this escape route, it wasn't as openly vulnerable as stating outright that Sylar was fearing the Japanese man's reaction upon seeing him. Why would the Master of Time and Space ever want to help the infamous Boogeyman? Thoughts of Hiro screaming, calling him names or – even worse – running him through again with that damn sword rose unbidden, and suddenly Sylar was very aware that this would be the first time one of the other _heroes_ would come face to face with him since his redemption. And down a dark alley of all places!

He cringed at how pathetic it was that he and Peter even bother with a pretence they both could see straight through. But he took it anyway. Partly for himself, partly for the sake of the mission: it was a lot more likely that things would go smoothly if Sylar wasn't in the vicinity...

After quickly surveying Peter with his perceptive intuition to see that, yes, it seemed he would be alright here on his own for a minute, Sylar nodded. “Be right back.”

“'Kay. Be careful.”

*

Sylar melted into the darkness too quickly for comfort, and Peter let his crunching footsteps reassure him. Then turned to focus on the four letters shining through his fractured screen. The same ones that had taunted him for weeks now, that had sat there laughing at him the whole time. Sylar was right: destiny was waiting. Taking a breath, pacing in an attempt to walk off his nerves, Peter readied himself –

Then almost jumped out of his skin as his ringtone pierced the air, rebounding back off the towering buildings to each side. Startled and thrown, it took a moment to make sense of what was happening. Then Peter's stomach somersaulted – destiny wasn't just waiting, it was _calling_!

“ _Hiro_?!”

“Peeta Petrellee?”

Peter stopped in his tracks and puffed out in surprise. “Yeah! Yeah, it's me!” Buzzing at the timing of fate (fate, not a coincidence – because there were no such things) he cast an exhilarated glance at Sylar to share the moment... before remembering he wasn't standing there anymore. Right. It was insane to think he hadn't heard this man's voice for years. It was exactly the same as when he'd last heard it, so familiar and so synonymous with everything working out alright that Peter physically felt himself relax. “It's good to hear from you, buddy, I was just about to call you.”

“I know.”

Oh. Heart pounding, Peter waited for an elaboration. Which never came. So he shook himself and cleared his throat, getting back to business. “So... you know why?”

“Yes. I got your messages.”

Still nothing further, no indication of which reaction was coming. Peter itched to launch into a billion questions about where Hiro had been, what he had seen, why he hadn't changed anything and how long he'd been back...! But to save from scaring the guy off so soon, he steeled himself and cut right to the chase, forcing it out in one breath. “Okay... I need to borrow your power.”

“No.” Came Hiro's instant reply.

Peter blinked, a little surprised by this answer if he was honest. “No? Just like that – 'no'?” He frowned, confused. Okay, so maybe that everything-working-out-alright mindset had been a bit premature. “Wh... why?”

“You cannot travel into the future Peeta Petrellee! Sometimes mistakes have to be made in order to learn, no matter the sacrifice!” Hiro cried, suddenly all insistence and misplaced passion.

Overwhelmed, Peter struggled to process the unexpected flurry of his tone and words at once. “What? I'm not gonna go _forward_ , Hiro, I'm going _back_.” He said gently, hoping to soothe the unexpected intensity of the Japanese man's voice. Jeez, who _wasn't_ out to get him today? Hiro had always been a given, a moral compass who was infallible in knowing the right path ahead. But this didn't make any sense! He was normally on neutral ground, outside all the commotion going on within the tightest circle of lies and deceptions. So unless Renautas had somehow gotten to him (which Peter struggled to believe) then it must be some other reason that the man's guard was risen towards him.

“No! You cannot change the past! The cheerleader has to make the jump!” Hiro insisted.

“Woah, woah, wait. Hold up –” Peter pressed his phone closer to his ear, extremely aware that he was clearly out of his depth here. “Listen to me, I'm not gonna undo history. Alright?” Not too far, at least. “I'm only going back a few hours: I dunno if you heard, but a lot of innocent people died today. I need to savethem.”

A ringing silence crackled through the line as Hiro apparently thought it over. This time he was calm, almost sorrowful, and ringing with reminders of the first time Peter had met the wise, ponytailed man from the future. “You must not mess with fate, Peeta Petrellee. I have seen yours. I cannot help you, I am sorry – you must walk your own path without intervention.”

Peter's eyelids closed briefly as he took a second to ward off the creeping despair. Would Hiro really _not_ help? Foolishly, this had been an aspect that had never once factored into Peter's many plans over the past weeks. Talking slowly, he fought not to sound desperate, settling for coming off as just a little pleading. “But I painted it, Hiro. I saw my fate too and I'm telling you – it's to help those people. I _know_ it.” He gnawed his lip agitatedly, tasting the metallic residue of blood still lingering there. “I need your ability to undo an explosion. That's all. This has nothing to do with Claire or the carnival, I just wanna help. Please.”

Once more there was a delayed response from Hiro, and one that seemed to stretch on for eternity before Peter cleared his throat and tried again. “So will you help me?” To a reply of only more silence, he called more persistently. “ _Hiro_...?”

Just as Peter was certain that the time traveller had given up on him, he stumbled backwards in fright as the little Japanese man himself suddenly _popped_ into being right there in the alleyway. Numb with relief, Peter hung up and crossed the space towards his stout, round-faced companion.

“Hey, thanks for this, you have no idea what it means...” He started, extending a hand to shake Hiro's. Only to have him tense up and shuffle back a few inches. Wounded, but pretending he hadn't noticed, Peter instead crossed his arms tightly in order to hide his hands and hopefully reassure his visitor that he wasn't about to steal the ability without consent. It niggled at him though that Hiro would even think such a thing of him.

*

He did not look dangerous at all. In fact, he looked very fragile indeed. Shaken and blood soaked and very obviously on the run: he was a ghost of the vibrant, lively man Hiro had first met in person at Kirby Plaza; a stark contrast to the scarred and strong figure who had fought his way to Hiro in a forgotten future. He just looked desperate. Hopeful. And Hiro sympathised with this man. Even though – no, especially _because_ – he knew what he was going to become.

He wished he could help, wished he could warn him. But, as Hiro had already said, sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the greater good.

“ _If_ I give you my power...” He said suspiciously, narrowing his eyes slightly as Peter shifted nervously from foot to foot. “You cannot abuse it.” He sternly pushed his slipping glasses back into place on the bridge of his nose.

Peter flinched at the insinuation, badly trying to hide how much it had hurt. It really was a shame, but Hiro could not be too careful. “Of _course_ not. I would never –”

“And you must promise not to step on too many butterflies.”

“I...” The paramedic faded into silence, seemingly at a loss of what else to say. It was obvious that he had been expecting this encounter to go very differently, that he had not thought Hiro had this in him. Well, Hiro could say the same regarding Peter. Very visibly, the younger man waded through his bruised emotions in order to find what Hiro was seeking. “...I promise.”

It was not fair to hold this version of the man responsible for what he had not even done yet. No. It was not very honourable. But Hiro could not help but recall the sight of Peter Petrelli slaughtering his way through a crowded street months from now. He did not yet know what would cause the change or when it was going to happen, all he knew was that destiny was foretold, and Hiro and his ability had a duty to abide by it. Even then, though, he also had a duty to the innocent people Peter wanted to save today.

The empath's face was difficult to make out clearly in the darkness, but Hiro could see enough of it to witness the vulnerability and dying hope there. He did not want to be the cause of that expression, especially since he had always liked to consider Peter an ally. He was brave and selfless and, for now, good... and if Hiro had to gift his cherished power to anyone he knew, he would have chosen this man. Currently, there was no reason to turn him down and no sense of danger to be found... so at least today, the world would be in safe hands.

“...O.K.” Hiro sated defiantly. “I am choosing to trust you.” With only a slight hesitance, he held out his hand. It was clasped gently by the soft touch of a cautious man who was trying not to scare off his only hope. “But be careful.”

“Thank you.” Peter murmured, granting Hiro a good attempt at a smile.

The Japanese man was suddenly thrown back to when he'd woken in a hospital bed to that same face and same, sad smile. Peter had been a warm source of comfort and trust then, when Hiro had been sure his time was up. He had been kind, patient and had gone above and beyond in order to help. Hiro wished it did not have to be the way he had foreseen, but sometimes a hero must fall from grace in order to save the world.

It was a pleasant, tingly sensation to have his ability tenderly pried from him, and the moment the golden light faded from Peter's skin the man seemed to alight with optimism and purpose. “I really appreciate it, Hiro, thank you! We won't let you down!” Peter promised with a comforting squeeze, now only holding onto Hiro's hand with both of his own for the kind gesture of it. Hiro even began to feel quite hopeful about this... until the stubborn oddness of that word began to sink in.

“Wait a second...” He mused aloud, head tilting to the side and voice coming out very small. “ _'We'_?”

The relief that had just seconds ago been rippling over the paramedic dimmed just slightly as Hiro let his hand fall to his side, his eyes swivel themselves into the gaping shadows engulfing the surrounding alley, and his ears finally identify the sound of approaching footsteps.

Just as a tall, unmistakable silhouette broke the darkness. ... _Pinchi?_

*

“I know what you're going to say...” Sylar drawled, strolling towards the recognisable shape of Peter with deliberate levity. God knows the poor guy needed some cheering up before they launched into their grand adventure. “'How can you think about food at a time like this?' - but don't worry, I disguised myself, and you haven't eaten all day am I right...?” He chuckled and took another bite of his make-shift dinner before lofting the two, steaming hot dogs to his face and performing a great sniff for show. “Mmmm...!”

Then Sylar froze, mouth full, suddenly burning with embarrassment and furious with himself for underestimating how long things would take. Because Hiro hadn't been and gone in the time it had taken Sylar to shape-shift, locate a hot dog stand and find his way back again. No, there was the Master of Time and Space now, standing annoyingly where Peter's shadow had been hiding him until it had been far too late.

Hiro was staring, standing up as straight as he possibly could as if in defence, concern leaking around the look of surprise on his face... but somehow... there wasn't as much surprise as Sylar thought there should have been. It was more as if the guy had been taken off guard by a guest arriving an hour early to the party, rather than the absolute shock he should be experiencing at having Sylar waltz up to him in a dark, secluded place with a mouthful of hot dog. This uncertainty was actually more jarring than a front-on attack would have been, and it was only after Sylar caught Peter's wide, prompting eyes that he choked down his too large bite and awkwardly greeted the man he had been hoping to avoid entirely.

“Hiro.” He said politely, testing the waters because he had no clue what else to do.

To the watchmaker's utter astonishment, Hiro didn't run screaming for the hills. Or stop time and break his neck. Or even confront him with one of those godawful speeches about the differences between good and bad. He just deflated, relaxed as if confirming a great suspicion, and performed a little bow. “Brain Man.”

*

Okay... so clearly he hadn't been prepared for this interaction at all. Everything had been the opposite of what Peter had expected would happen, and while Hiro's doubt and accusations were still throbbing painfully in his bruised chest – this next startling turn of events was chugging its way slowly through his perception. It had almost gone kind-of-smoothly. He _had_ the ability now, they were _so_ close, and Peter couldn't handle another setback today...! But, bizarrely, it seemed that wasn't what the cards predicted.

“You don't seem surprised to see me.” Sylar tested cautiously, keeping amazingly calm while Peter's nerves were fraying over here. He watched as his friend's shoulders raised a fraction, but nothing else betrayed the restlessness that Peter knew was overcoming him inside.

“No.” Hiro stated, drawing Peter's attention again. Strange... the way he was looking at Sylar now. With curiosity, with admiration... even _pride_? “I knew you two would become friends. I just did not expect it would be so quickly.”

Trying to diffuse the tension, Sylar exhaled an humourless breath as he pressed a hot dog into Peter's hand. “Trust me, it's not been 'quickly' –”

“Wait! Wait.” Peter cried, sifting his free hand through his hair and ignoring the fragrant food when something so much more important was going on here. “You – you know? You saw _us_?” He asked Hiro. “In the future...?” Was it ridiculous to care so much when someone approached this relationship with something other than torches and pitchforks? Outsiders' opinions didn't matter, really, that's what Peter had been telling himself (and Sylar) for weeks...! Yet, it was astoundingly wonderful not to have to break out the argument and defences yet again.

The foreigner's eyes danced between Peter and Sylar, the former listening expectantly and the latter suddenly busying himself in his meal and avoiding eye contact. “Yes. I saw a lot of things.”

*

It appeared that the old reliable, look-busy-and-they-won't-notice-you trick failed badly, because Sylar could feel both pairs of eyes upon him as he picked at his food. Great, so here it was after all – the inevitable lecture about how Sylar was evil and soulless and had no hope of anything before him but a lonely, forgetful death...

He wasn't hungry anymore. He still felt like such an intruder to this little hero-meeting when strategies were discussed and the plan to take down the problem was created. From the outside he'd always wondered if the _good guys_ stood in a circle and threw about ideas like a design team until they came up with the most annoying conclusion to get in his way. Somehow, the thought that they literally just called each other up had always seemed stupid, as if it couldn't possibly be done so casually.

It was a strange tangent to get caught up in during this heated moment concerning the future, but all at once Sylar was very aware that he had once been the Big Baddie and that he was now clumsily trying to inch his way into the group like that one friend nobody likes but always tags along anyway. Like back when he and Peter had drawn the future together, Sylar wasn't sure he wanted to know what was in store for him if it conflicted with what he wanted to happen. And especially not if Hiro kept staring at him like that.

He took another, uncharacteristically small, bite of his hot dog just for something to do, using his peripheral vision to see that Peter still hadn't touched his food (no surprise there, but at least the regeneration should have taken care of that empty stomach for a few hours yet)... and then that Hiro was starting towards him. Sylar involuntarily startled like a cat, his eyes darting to the small, round-faced man and assessing for any sign of attack. There was none.

*

It was more than a little disarming, and frightening, and uncomfortable... but Hiro did it anyway. He forced his feet to carry him towards the towering killer, being brave the way he always strived to be. Sylar almost shrank back at his approach, and that in itself gave Hiro the extra little push of confidence that he needed.

“Lead with your heart. Sylar.” Hiro made the conscious effort to use his chosen name this time. Ignoring the creeping doubts, he stretched towards the soft, fuzzy fabric of the man's sweater and tapped his fingertips to his chest. “...And you will be a _good_ man.”

Hiro had never noticed until this moment that The Brain Man's facial features were soft, not severe. That his eyes were packed with emotion, not cold and calculating. Or that his heart beat a rhythm very human, defenceless, just like everyone else's. Up close, it did not seem far-fetched at all to believe this man's evolution into the future version that Hiro had glimpsed.

If only Ando could see how close he had gotten to this person...! It still saddened him to be reminded of the empty space beside him where Ando should have been, even though Hiro had been the one to insist The Crimson Arc retired. A hero's duty is to their family, and with a wedding to plan and a mini-Ando on the way, saving the world as well would just be too much at once. It had been the right thing to do to let Ando go and use his time to be a perfect father and husband, even if Hiro still missed him terribly.

Friendship, Hiro believed, was one of the most precious things in all the universes. Unique to every pair, a beautiful creation of love and affection between those lucky souls who found each other. Like, for example, himself and Ando. And Peter and Sylar. At first it had been surprising, but upon reflection Hiro had decided that this particular friendship before him now made impeccable sense. They needed each other, they complimented each other perfectly. The Light and Dark side of the Force would be nothing without the other to contrast with, in order to be anything remarkable of substance after all, and in that way, Hiro could see that these two men had been bound together all along.

There was a quiet, pleased noise from behind him, a response to this carefully shared foresight of Sylar's future, and Hiro watched as the former villain beamed over his head to share this good news with his adored friend. So it had started already. Who would have thought, right back at the start, that things would unfurl the way they were going to? The way Hiro had witnessed with his own two eyes...? Fate was funny like that.

“...Lead with your heart...” Hiro repeated, tapping Sylar's chest again for emphasis. “And you will be a _great_ teacher.”

*

Peter's stomach flipped and he dropped his proud gaze from Sylar onto Hiro as the latter turned to survey him. He wasn't sure if he even wanted to hear some vague advice about his future, even though Sylar's had been beautiful and wonderful and well-deserved, if a little confusing at the last part. All the same, Peter stood with a racing heart now that it might be his turn, half waiting to see if there was more to come. However, the Japanese man seemed to be finished sharing his wisdom for today. He retracted his hand from Sylar, revealing his underlying nerves by scuffing away from him a little too quickly in a parting gesture.

“Wait –?” Peter took an imploring step across the rough ground. That was it?

“Be brave, Peeta Petrellee.” Was all that Hiro said, stopping Peter in his tracks with an all-knowing look and the hint of a nervous smile. It was an expression that said no more questions would be answered, no more secrets alluded to. And even though that trait was one prominent in Hiro Nakamura, a man Peter liked, right then it maddened him. What did that mean? And who was Sylar to teach? Why was he to teach them? It was infuriatingly ambiguous and Peter wasn't sure he liked the insinuations in those statements, the look on Hiro's face, or in fact any of the uncomfortable vibes he'd been picking up from the guy throughout the entire exchange.

“You now have my power. Save those people. ...They will need you. Both.” Hiro concluded, before looking meaningfully once more at Sylar and giving the two men another bow. When he straightened up his face was kinder through the depths of so much withheld knowledge, and Peter grasped onto that tiny flicker of support if it was all he was to have. He clenched his jaw to stop from yelling out more questions he knew wouldn't be acknowledged, instead only nodded his farewell as Hiro closed his eyes. Then disappeared.

Peter tried not to notice the squirming of his insides or that he felt somehow smaller now than before he'd spoken to Hiro. He felt uneasy, empty for some reason despite getting the ability and fulfilling the initial goal of the phone call. It should have been a triumph, a small one in the midst of this entire, dreadful day, but instead... Peter found himself half wishing he could re-do the entire conversation. Well, technically he _could_ now, and in a few seconds it wouldn't even have happened and would be wiped from existence to everyone aside from himself and Sylar. But that wasn't the point.

It was probably good though that Hiro had no grand future wisdom for him. ...Right? Besides, what he'd had for Sylar was brilliant! Peter knew how much it meant to his friend to hear his efforts be recognised by a pretty good source of authority on the matter. So he back-kicked the ridiculous, pitiful feeling of neglect and instead forced the pros of the time traveller's visit to outshine the cons in his mind's eye.

Purpose rippled beneath Peter's skin again enticingly, that drug he had long craved relaxing him at last. Now equipped with Hiro's blessing and the godlike power to right all today's wrongs, there finally _were_ no more obstacles in the way of fulfilling destiny! Nothing more than his own human hesitance, anyway. This was it: the last chance to back away and leave the precariously balancing display of life as it was. It might be in desperate need of repair, but at least it was still standing. Peter had no guarantee that his and Sylar's meddling would or wouldn't be that fatal gust of wind that would send the thing crumbling down in pieces; no more assurance to do this other than the pressure pounding within his ribcage and the most intense of gut feelings. They might not be much, but they were his most trusty of weapons, his sword and shield in every manner of existence. And in the face of the alternative solution, that was more than enough for this self-appointed hero to go on.

*

“So you got it? His ability?” Sylar asked, fighting back the giddy grin that was still toying with his lips as he crossed to Peter's side. He took another bite of his almost finished hot dog to distract his lips from their incessant smiling. He shouldn't be acting so childish about this, really, but hearing that a good future awaited him – _Sylar!_ – after everything he'd done, was bundling him up in warm, plushy arms and spinning him like a child who'd just had their biggest wish confirmed.

“Yeah.” The little man said quietly, then coughed and squared his shoulders, turning to look Sylar in the eye with a flicker of resolution still smouldering in his own. “Yeah, I got it.”

“That wasn't so bad...” Sylar said, muffled, attempting to tame the euphoric fire that was merrily crackling in his chest. It was a struggle that bested him, trying not to let his relief and delight shine clearly on his face. He couldn't believe it, rationally didn't want to put his hope in the cryptic words of a time traveller, but Sylar knew he'd be wielding the insinuations of Hiro's advice inside until he milked every last glorious drop of it dry.

“No. It wasn't.” Peter's words were tenderly wrapped in satisfaction like a gift proudly delivered to a friend who just won himself a gold medal, and Sylar's pleasure only intensified. Oh yes, he wasn't going to forget Hiro's advice anytime soon. With an exhilarating lurch of his organs, Sylar choked down his mouthful and smiled at his companion. There were other matters more pressing than his internal happy dance – the oil rig wouldn't save itself, after all.

“Ready?” He asked, a small sound in the gaping alley.

In response, Peter clapped a hand to Sylar's back: a caring touch that Sylar appreciated at its face value even though he knew it was also a stabilising, reassuring gesture that Peter needed before starting off into the wide world again. He didn't pry. Not when they were finally where Peter had fought so hard to get to. “Yeah. You?” The little man asked brightly, the tremor in his voice microscopic.

In hopes of instilling more of that infectious confidence which Peter had displayed back at the apartment (before fucking Bennet had fucking stormed in and fucking ruined it all), Sylar gently grasped the man's furthest shoulder and tipped his own head down, surveying his friend intently, enthusiastically. Then he purred out the most wonderful, seductive plan to best all other plans that had ever come before this one.

“Lets go be heroes.”

Peter's eyes reignited as those flames sparked again with a new lease of life. He shook himself, drew in a deep breath and tightened his fingers in Sylar's sweater, holding on tight. Following by example, Sylar closed his eyes in wait, tensed his muscles, trusted in Peter and could do nothing more than anticipate the unknown sensation of his very first teleportation.

Sirens were still screaming nearby, car horns still wailing, the domestic argument had faded from the overhead window but now heavy, angry music was pounding through the wall... and then suddenly there was biting wind pulling at Sylar's body like hands, the deep rumbling of the ocean echoing all around, and fizzling chills prickling down his form that had nothing to do with his lack of coat.

*

The two men stood beneath the full, unbroken, towering height of the fateful oil rig, tiny figures under the metal arms that seemed to stretch for miles into the sky above.

It looked so different like this. _Real._ Last time Peter had been here, crawling through a burning wreck in search of survivors, it had been unrecognisable as this proud structure. Distorted by flame and destruction, the rig had been more akin to a movie set than a real life place of work. Hundreds of people were inside right this second. And they had no idea what was about to happen.

Against his will, Peter was treated to a high definition replay of the memory of burned and broken bodies that had swarmed through the hospital earlier. Or no, not earlier. Later? He wasn't quite sure how to class it, but it didn't even matter anyway. Because now that he was standing here, and now that he was 100% certain that this _had_ been the right thing to do: Peter made a promise to himself, Sylar, Noah, Renautas and every single life that had been impacted in some way by the deaths here. He was _not_ going to let it happen again.

 

***

 

The sun poured in the badly washed, streaked window, warming his face and twinkling in the empty glass that now held the very last dregs of chocolate milk. Today was a good day. Today was special. Today he was starting to feel more like his old self... and it was also the first day he'd set eyes on his own daughter in person for months.

Lumbering footsteps approached the booth as the waiter performed an admirable attempt not to look hungover. “Anything else I can get you, sir?” He asked flatly, in that tone of a youngster who hates his day job and is only working here to pay off his student debt until he gets his big break one day.

“Another one of these and a coffee.” Noah slid the empty glass across the plastic table surface with a smile. Since they'd been apart, he had caught himself picturing the little girl with braces and curly pigtails whenever he thought of his daughter (which, naturally, was often), and sometimes it was difficult to remember that she was now a woman with a swarm of assistants and her own fortune, not to mention a cult following. Claire thought she was so grown up... yet the world's most talked-about icon had consumed this chocolate milk as quickly as she had as a kid. Noah hoped to keep them coming – anything that would make his Claire Bear happy, as long as it was safe of course. ...Such as promising her a job at Renautas and intending to put her in the PR department rather than out on the field...

When the waiter had slouched away to tend to the refills, Noah looked around the small, reasonably busy diner contently. Obviously, one eye had been constantly trained on the door to the ladies' toilets since Claire had disappeared through it, but as he found himself sitting in this nondescript, mediocre place just after three in the afternoon (a rare moment off-duty) Noah couldn't remember feeling so at home in a long time. His apartment back in Washington was still empty, still more of a storage facility that he sometimes slept in than a home, despite his generous pay checks, and aside from work the agent did nothing much with his time nowadays. So it was a welcome change to fly across the country simply to have a pleasant, if a little strained, coffee and a milk in New York with the one person he would change the world for. And the one person he had allowed to do so themselves.

Sounds of humming chit-chat and the distant kitchen ruckus were rudely disturbed by an incoming call sounding in Noah's jacket pocket. He grimaced and hesitated – he'd promised Claire no work calls, and truth be told he'd rather not be interrupted during their reconciliation – but she wasn't currently in the vicinity and Noah had informed the team not to contact him unless it was an emergency.

Subtly huddling in the direction of the window to limit the projection of his voice, he spoke calmly. “Yes?”

“Uh... they lost him.”

There was silence while this untimely news leaked over Noah, tainting his happy reverie. “What do you mean 'they lost him'? We have eyes and ears on that building 24/7, don't you tell me he managed to slip past you...?”

The young woman's monotonous voice sighed. Her enthusiasm could give the hungover waiter a run for his money. “They lost him on the street. Maybe you'd better get down there, you're in town, right?” So she was in one of her moods, and in need of a good kick up the backside, but Noah knew better than to snap at the boss's daughter.

He ground his teeth subtly, glancing over his shoulder at the ladies' bathroom once more. Of all the hours on all the days...! Noah doubted there was even reason to worry. If this story had come from someone more adept then maybe he'd be thinking along different lines, but it hadn't. No doubt the mark was still in plain sight but just being foolishly over-looked, Noah wouldn't even be surprised! This was just the repercussions of being dragged into a 'hip, young, fresh' team of rookies. And Noah had thought working with Danko was unfulfilling...!

“I think you can handle this yourself, Taylor.” He said. “You're a big girl now, time to take responsibility for your work. Remember what got you on surveillance duty in the first place...?”

“Urgh, don't remind me.” The teenager huffed. Noah cherished even more adoration for _his_ daughter in comparison. Yes, Claire had gotten into her fair share of misdeeds over the years (the biggest perhaps being outing a whole species of human to the world), but at least when she put her effort into something – she _really_ put her effort in. Upon taking her place in Renautas, even on a surface-level job, Noah knew she would shine as she star she was. Unlike Taylor, who squandered her privileges on parties and drink and put so little work into the job her mother had forced upon her until she'd eventually been dumped behind a monitor for safe keeping.

Although apparently, even from one and a half thousand miles away, her knack for negligence on a case was by no means diluted. Employing his only slightly condescending, I-know-best tone, Noah routinely went through the motions, just in case, before there was any chance of Claire re-appearing. “Have the team set up a perimeter, get the troops out searching for him starting from where he disappeared, keep eyes on the workshop and ears on any surrounding noise, don't let them get too close or they'll blow our cover... oh, and Taylor?” He waited for a reply, the stagnant lack of one substituting as enough. “I'm in an... important meeting. And I'd appreciate it if you don't call again unless _it's an emergency_.”

“Sure. Whatever.” The line went dead without so much as an ounce of respect for a senior agent, but Noah found that today it didn't irk him as much as normal. He could practically still hear the girl doodling on her arm in pen as she lounged back in an office chair, feet on the desk, as if just to be as teenagery as was possible. Noah couldn't really blame her attitude though, not everyone could turn out as beautifully as his Claire – especially after the home life Taylor had come from. However, that didn't mean he liked being on the receiving end of her derision, or the fact that he couldn't outrank it.

Only slightly grumbling, Noah had barely even attempted to slip his phone out of sight of a certain pair of green eyes before the thing went off again. Christ – didn't she even understand the concept of 'important meeting' or an 'emergency'...?! Upon further investigation, however, he discovered that no, Taylor Kravid wasn't in need of some politely-masked reprimanding: it was a withheld number now flashing at him, _not_ one of Renautas'. And despite himself and the quaint little diner and the fact that Claire would likely be back very soon, Noah's curiosity got the better of him.

A sigh. “Well. We were right, Noah.”

The middle aged man straightened up a little in his chair. While his _team_ might have to abide by orders of when and when not to contact him – some people ran by their own rules. Socialising with his own crowd now, Noah found he didn't mind this particular interruption half as much as Taylor's. Not that he would have voiced that, anyway. “I'm assuming you're not talking about the unfortunate death of disco...?”

Getting right to the point, as always, Angela Petrelli pulled no punches. “He's going to kill a lot of people. Today. You won't have time to get there and stop him.”

These words rang themselves through Noah's mind in layers: first, the horror at what she was predicting, fury at who was responsible, and then that uncomfortable meshing of two voices telling him simultaneously that something was very wrong. So, apparently, it hadn't just been a lazy young woman's ignorance that had lost Target 1 from Renautas' radar after all... shit. Lastly, confusion hit Mr Bennet – confusion at Angela's call if she already knew there was nothing to be done about it. What did a guy have to do to get a peaceful afternoon to himself and the daughter he was trying to bribe back into his good graces? It seemed foolish now to think back to how happy he had been just minutes ago. Yes. Of _all_ the days for things to start slipping through his fingers.

“...You think we should let him do it?” His tone was slow, questioning, wheedling out her motivations.

Angela sniffed, her no nonsense voice cutting even through the diffuser of a phone. “A few hundred civilian deaths are inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. I suggest you let things play out as they will, tap into the security footage and then you'll have your evidence to lock Sylar away once and for all.” The next words were gentle, placed out delicately like prized possessions. “Isn't that what you want...?”

She was good. This woman was a constant surprise, never predictable and always one step ahead of the game. Noah _did_ want to be the one to drag Sylar down – he had right from the very first time he'd witnessed ol' Gabriel Gray scalp that goth kid back at the beginning. But at the cost of a few _hundred_ deaths...? Noah Bennet was no saint. He had more than a little blood on his hands, he knew how to prioritize and sacrifice for the end goal. However he wasn't as comfortable with the thought of deliberately allowing so many people to die as Angela had proven herself to be.

Yesterday, he'd have had less qualms about it. Maybe even this morning. If Claire hadn't _just_ reconnected with him and _just_ expressed how proud she was of him for holding down a proper job where he was actually, um... “helping people”, then Noah would probably have come round to this plan without the second-guessing his conscience was currently bestowing upon him.

Claire would hate him if she knew he was still involved in this life. And things were still tender between them. But what better way to win back her love and approval than by finally taking down the man who she hated more than any other on the planet...?

The lumbering waiter returned at last, deposited the milkshake and poured the coffee, somehow looking even more hungover than he had previously, and left Noah alone again with Claire's favourite drink. It was a symbol of his precious girl: sweet, looked fresh and enticing and the most innocent of drinks around; but the liquid was biting and the flavour strong and unapologetic. Chocolate milk was better than just plain milk. It had that extra something added, it was _unique_. Special. Like Claire. She had never been a broody party animal who caused trouble just for the sake of trouble, unlike _some_ people Noah knew. No, Claire had always been sure of what she wanted, stubborn to a fault since the days she'd thrown tantrums over not getting her way as a child, to defying her father, her friends and the entire world's advice and jumping off that Ferris Wheel back in December. Her wrath was biting but her adoration made everything else worth it, and Noah had been besotted ever since Kaito Nakamura had placed the little bundle in his arms all those years ago.

“Noah?” Angela prompted. He could perfectly envision her tight lips and striking eyes berating him as she waited for his reply.

Any parent would go to great lengths for their child's best interests. And Noah wasn't just _any_ parent. Maybe Claire didn't have to know _how_ he reigned in Sylar? Just that he had? Maybe there could be the best of both options here?

“If you send me the details I'll look over them.” He said casually, as if from the outside this could be a casual work call and not the potential plotting of mass murder.

“Oh, I can do better than that...”

The call was interrupted by an incoming, live video feed that started streaming before Noah could even make sense of the expectant, dark, pipe-lined corridor on screen. He barely had to wait a few seconds before an infuriatingly familiar, darkly-dressed figure prowled around the corner and into view...

*

Claire finished re-applying her lipgloss for the third time and tried again to fix the wig into some semblance of _alright_. She didn't much appreciate the look of it, but was once again grateful for her publicist Danielle's input when the two chattering woman washing their hands at the next sink didn't spare her more than a passing glance on the way out.

The girl in the mirror didn't look much like her, but Claire liked that. She wasn't the cheerleader that nobody could seem to look past anymore, she wasn't the superstar that everyone wanted to look like either... she was an agent. Or, at least would soon become one if today's meeting with her father was actually going to merit something more than an endless supply of bribed milkshakes.

She had to admit though... it _was_ quite nice to take the day off and just be a normal girl again sitting in a cheap booth in a crappy diner with her Dad. It had been a good call to set this up, she decided. It had definitely been worth evading her security detail, and the quick stop at the hospital, because Claire wasn't sure if she would've had the confidence to confront her father the way she had done if it hadn't been for Peter, his kind words or his faith in her. He was right though, Claire had to admit – she _had_ helped millions of people around the globe with what she'd done since the carnival. So wasn't it fair that _she_ got to be happy too? To feel like something more than America's Sweetheart?

With one final adjustment of the uncomfortable wig, Claire decided it couldn't get any better than it was, held herself up as tall and professionally as possible, and admired her reflection once again. Yeah – _definitely_ an agent. If only Noah would see her that way, too.

The first thing she noticed when she exited the toilet was her Dad absorbed in his phone. Of course. It made sense that the second she excused herself he'd dip back into work mode, but today Claire didn't mind. She wasn't the same girl who used to resent her father for choosing work over her (while yes, it _did_ still hurt to think back on), because now _she_ would be on the same page. And the thrill of being involved in the thick of things was enough to keep the slightly forced smile on her face from faltering.

*

More dark corridors. Multiple angles. That slender figure occasionally caught creeping through the frame like a ghost... until he could no longer be found. Losing eyes on this target was abhorrent due to his intentions, but thankfully Noah was more adept at his job than his team were. As concern began to simmer inside, he honed his concentration and scrolled through the different cameras available, searching, searching, until – bingo. He found the winning shot: a clear, unobstructed view of the son of a bitch's face... and, both shockingly and unsurprisingly, none other than Peter Petrelli stalking along with him.

Noah watched the live footage, unblinking, feeling the last dregs of his happy respite fading as the pair wound their way through the interior of the oil rig Angela had just warned him about. So it was true, what she'd said. And that bastard Sylar was already there! No thanks to Taylor and the team for supposedly keeping track of him! Angela had failed to include Peter in her warning, however, but there was no mistaking him there wearing matching, dark apparel and most definitely _not_ there to fight Sylar. So they were both in on it. Just as Noah had been anticipating all along...!

His first instinct was to get over there and catch them red-handed before they killed hundreds of people, save the day and earn cheer and celebration all round... but he didn't want to cut this afternoon with Claire short and upset her. And didn't much fancy a action-packed bonanza to wrap up this day when he had been looking forward to a quiet coffee. Morally, should he try to stop Sylar before anyone got hurt? Probably. But Angela had said there wouldn't be time, and it would be so much easier to turn a blind eye for now, let the monster do its thing while Noah finished another few mugs of coffee, and _then_ he'd capture Sylar after, once he'd crawled back to his shop, when he would be unaware and outnumbered...

Before he could properly make his mind up (although he was definitely leaning towards the second option), Noah was hauled back to the bright, cheery diner when Claire slipped back into the booth opposite. He relived the same jolt of surprise at her unfamiliar, brunette appearance, and then the same rush of love at being close to her once again. Right then, Noah made his mind up. He would always choose his Claire Bear.

*

“Is that about me?” Claire gestured to whatever work thing Noah had been looking at, only half joking. She would know that look a mile away – he was being called in.

“Uh... no. No, this is...” After a brief internal debate, Noah smiled. Claire watched slightly suspiciously as her father dropped his hand holding the phone to the table and reached across to cup her cheek. It might have otherwise been embarrassing to be treated so immaturely, but she really had missed him (as much as she didn't want to admit that). “It's nothing.” He said kindly.

Despite herself and the slight distance she'd been planning to keep to spare herself from succumbing to the never ending push/pull dynamic of lies and trust of this relationship, Claire felt herself smile back in return. She couldn't help it, after a lifetime of having her Dad choose work over her, it felt damn good to be put first for once. She quickly recognised the rinse and repeated thought that tried to break free for the gazillionth time – maybe _this_ time would be different? Maybe this would finally be the stage of her life where Noah would treat her as an equal?

The pair shared a nice, almost back to normal moment like any average father and daughter out for a drink together on a New York City afternoon. And that would have been the end of it. They would have continued their talk and separated on a good note, Claire would have dutifully returned to her penthouse suite in the hotel to be cooped up again while she waited for Noah's promise of a job to come true, and Noah would have gone along late to whatever work thing he had been postponing until after. But it wasn't to be. Not anymore. Because Claire just happened to drop her eyes to the phone sitting slackly in Noah's hand, just happened to notice some sort of video still playing upside down, and just happened to catch sight of a familiar face, one that shouldn't have even been there in the first place.

*

“Is that _Peter_?!”

Crap – Noah only realised too late that he hadn't been hiding the screen properly, and by then there was nothing he could do. Claire gasped, pulled her cheek out of his hold and leant across the table to get a better look at the phone that Noah hastily stowed in his pocket. “What _is_ that? Are you _spying_ on him?”

“Listen, Claire...”

“No! Don't do this again, Dad!” Claire accused, her face scrunching up. “Don't treat me like a idiot, _please!_ ” There was that razor-sharp glare that she had perfected so well. The blissful interval in their fall out was passing and the hurt, angry and distrusting Claire from the past few months was now sitting before Noah across the table. She didn't look like that little girl with braces and pigtails anymore.

The new, untouched chocolate milk sat forgotten to the side.

Inside, Noah was panicking. Outside, he was unreadable. He shouldn't have answered his phone. He shouldn't have listened to Taylor or taken Angela's bait. And now he couldn't lie his way out of this, because then he'd lose Claire again before he even caught her! He could, however, amend the details to spare her more unnecessary pain.

“Dad?!” Claire hissed, her eyebrows carved low in a betrayed frown, her teeth bared. “Why have you got surveillance footage of Peter? You said you weren't involved in that stuff anymore!”

*

He'd better not lie! He'd better not insult her that way _again!_ Not after everything she'd done to prove she wasn't a kid anymore, that she could look out for herself and lead an entire world movement without his meddling! That childish hope from earlier was retreating like a hand being slapped for reaching out too early, and she hated that she'd wanted to fall for his promises again.

Finally, Noah sighed and rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. “Now I don't want you to get upset...” Claire readied to defend herself – shrilly if need be – but the rest of the sentence wasn't the 'I'm doing some extra work on the side' rationale she'd been expecting. “Peter is involved in a terrorist attack. He's going to hurt a lot of people, and Renautas needs me to go in and get him.”

“What?!” It was absurd. As unexpected as when Lyle had said he'd suddenly got a girlfriend. As unexpected as when Lyle said anything nowadays, actually, and Claire was certain at first that Noah was lying to her. The words themselves screamed deception, but his body language and tone were far from the usual style used when he span her a line. “That's impossible!” She cried, eyes scanning over her Dad's lined, tired face.

“I know you don't want to believe it -”

“Where is he?”

“...Far enough away that you don't have to worry about anything. I can get a team and chopper here in fifteen minutes, and I'll take him in _unharmed_ –”

Once again, the young woman cut over the agent. “It must be a mistake! I _just_ talked to him! He was here, at the hospital, what...” Claire thought quickly. “An hour ago? He's not a terrorist – he was _fine!_ ” She insisted. ...But was Peter _really_ fine...? The memory of her uncle's gaunt and exhausted face, his agitation, and the sense of all those withheld secrets chimed uncomfortably in Claire's mind. And for the briefest second she faltered in her certainty.

*

Noah shushed his daughter gently, aware of their domestic setting and that Claire had just said the word “terrorist” very loudly. Thankfully, nobody seemed to have noticed the commotion. Yet.

It seemed that Noah's choice of how to deal with this commotion had been made for him by Claire's involvement, as it often was. He couldn't very well ignore the rig and arrest Sylar afterwards now that Claire had recognised her uncle and his involvement, could he? So there went plan A. Which meant he really had to get moving in order to fulfil plan B... which was easier said than done when it came to dislodging Miss Claire Bennet from her point of view.

Noah quickly battered out a text calling for reinforcements and transportation. “I'm sorry, Claire, I have to take a rain check.” He awkwardly started climbing free from the booth, hoping in vain that she might just let him go. At least this time there was the incentive of arranging the Renautas job to keep her coming back to him, and he clung to that thought.

As expected, Claire jumped to her feet too, but instead of arguing more or storming out and breaking Noah's heart yet again, she gathered her expensive coat and handbag in her arms and crossed to his side. “I'm coming with you.” She insisted, so surely that it didn't register at first.

“Oh no you're not.” He said slowly, almost questioningly.

“Oh yes I _am_!” Claire insisted, trying her best to be up in Noah's face despite the glaring height difference between them. “If what you said is true, then Peter needs _help_! Not to be arrested and thrown back in some cell. Who better to talk him down than _me?_ ”

Sometimes she could still baffle Noah with her naivete. She really was so young sometimes, still headstrong and possessing that childish awareness that Noah loved about her so. She was probably right though, and it wasn't that he thought she wouldn't do a good job of the mission... it was that Noah hadn't been planning on giving her _real_ work to do that could put even one hair on her head, brown or blonde, into peril. A giant oil rig set to explode and the two most dangerous recorded evos were definitely a form of peril.

“Listen to me, Claire Bear -”

“Don't “Claire Bear” me, Dad! I wanna be an _agent_! What about everything you just said about being partners and having each other's back and helping people _together_...?”

Of course that would come around to bite him before he could even consider a believable, and not too hurtful, alternative that could be passed off as Claire's own misunderstanding. Extremely aware of the ticking clock, Noah performed his ingrained kindly father routine, the way he'd lie when only for her best interest. “I know what I said, sweetheart, and I meant it. But these things take time, you know that. Renautas is different that Primatech, and I could get in trouble for bringing you along without going through proper procedure. I'm sure you understand.”

*

Claire stood her ground stubbornly, glaring up at her father even after she endured the insulting kiss to her forehead. He'd promised. He'd smiled. He'd plastered her with chocolate milk and the very words she'd wanted to hear... and then he'd let her down again. Suddenly she was thirteen years old and her father had been called away from Thanksgiving dinner due to yet another paper emergency at work. Claire remembered how she'd finished her food and feigned a stomach ache after too much pie, then deliberately sneaked out with Jackie (oh, Jackie... she added another sorrowful edge to the memory) to the party her Dad had forbidden her from going to because Thanksgiving was a _family_ event! A family event that apparently wasn't as important to Noah Bennet as his precious company.

It had been the first time she'd sneaked out against the rules. If _he_ could bail even after ingraining the importance of family values at the holidays into her, if he could drop that belief at a moment's notice and leave the food to turn cold on his abandoned plate, then she damn well could too!

Of course, Claire had subsequently hated herself for lying to her parents who had scolded her once they, inevitably, found out, and told her how disappointed they were. They hadn't listened to her rationale, as if that was ever an option. The party had been worth it though, and if Claire hadn't gone she'd never have befriended the popular girls and would have been branded a loser forever. Mom and Dad hadn't understood, and Claire hadn't liked that they'd been upset in the process, but at least she'd made her own decision and stuck to her choice – the _right_ one, as it had turned out. Her parents _didn't_ always know what was best for her, how could they when they _weren't_ her...? Once the initial guilt and regret had faded, Claire had realised she'd learned a valuable lesson from that night.

 

It was a value deeply ingrained in this young woman who could now be argued the most influential person in America, if not the world. She let Noah touch her cheek again and give her another few, false apologies, and let him leave the diner thinking he'd won.

Then of course, Claire followed him. Because if she wanted something: be that sneaking to a Thanksgiving party with her friends, thrusting the world into acceptance of evos and their abilities, or infiltrating her father's mission to help her struggling uncle and prove her worth... nobody was going to stop her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I can't believe it's taken so long for this update, my apologies X( Thank you for your patience and for reading, and as I say every single time (because it's true every single time!) I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, especially after a month long wait! 
> 
> At least the good news is that I have some free time ahead of me, which of course will be put towards writing the next chapter ^.^ Speaking of... it's going to be a big one, in terms of story and length, and it'll probably take quite long to write... BUT – I have a cool idea that I'd really appreciate some help with?  
> I've decided that I'm going to make a trailer/fan vid for this story, and I'm very excited about it and can't wait to share it with you all! The only problem is I've never made a fan vid before, and I have no clue how to get the footage off the DVDs etc DX So if someone can recommend me a good (free) software or any piece of advice as to how to get this working, I'd really appreciate it ^.^
> 
> I want to make the trailer before I post the next chapter of this story, and I intend to get started as soon as I can work out the technicalities. Hopefully it won't be too long before it's finished, so please bear with me and enjoy the finished video when it's done! X)


	10. Something to Lose

Peter's heart was pounding in symphony with the unseen machinery whirring behind every wall. This whole place was rumbling, shifting, alive in its own right and somehow heavy with an impossible _knowing_... as if it were aware of what was yet to come. Aware of intruders in its midst.

Just act like you belong here, and no one will question it – that was what Sylar had insisted. Peter was trying, he really was, but he just didn't have it in him to compete with the man who had infiltrated a high security government facility unnoticed (at the time being their number one priority target) armed with no more disguise than a lifted ID badge, a $4 tie and a West Baltimore accent. Subterfuge and evasion came naturally to Sylar, but Peter, who had always had a problem with dishonesty, just couldn't get past the guilt and nerves that accompanied deception.

He fidgeted with his disguise yet again, uncomfortable in the borrowed (not stolen) clothes of a stranger. Sure, it was better than himself and Sylar blatantly plodding around splattered in blood and bullet holes, but even as much as slipping into a storeroom to help themselves to two dark coats that didn't belong to them was enough to push Peter's already anxious nerves right to the edge. Sylar had expertly fallen into an effortless guise, striding tall and not at all conspicuously, but Peter only felt even more out of place in a costume that couldn't help but remind him of the Hiro Nakamura he'd once met from the future. It was worth the discomfort though. Of course it was. The journey to the goal didn't have to be stylish or pleasant, just as long as it was effective.

The interior of the rig had, so far, been seemingly deserted, void of workers or obstacles, or even the person they'd come all this way to stop. Some might have thought this inspiring, but Peter was unable to shake the expectation that they'd get caught at every turn, confronted by their opposition or some other, worse, unknown issue. What if he got separated from Sylar? What if they got lost on the way and wasted precious seconds that could have changed everything? What if the assailant destroyed the rig anyway along with everything, _everyone_ , inside it before Peter and Sylar could even hope to make their mark on the situation...?!

He was panicking a little, here. Well, more than a little. Despite feeling the ultimately _perfect_ ability for this scenario humming reassuringly under his skin, Peter Petrelli had never exactly strolled into battle with a clear head and his confidence intact, and he wasn't about to start now.

The duo made their way determinedly through the iron labyrinth: they crossed under artificial lighting painting everything a metallic orangey yellow; followed a metal staircase and a narrow tunnel with indiscernible instructions and blueprints bolted to the walls; dodged past gears and wheels spotted sporadically along the way... Peter purposely didn't think of how they'd ever be able to get out in a hurry. Every particle of the rig had its purpose, every one of the many pipes and wires trailing the ceiling fed life for a reason, every box, cabinet or hatch held something important Peter was sure, but none of it made any sense to him. All he could see was a giant deathtrap filled with dangers, a deathtrap that could be minutes away from going off. But not if he had a say in it.

“How do you do it, Peter?”

The unexpected question startled him, and he glanced back over his shoulder in question. “Do what?”

“Run into danger over and over, knowing you have no control over the outcome.”

The lighting made it slightly hazy to discern Sylar's features, but Peter didn't even need to see him to recognise his friend's emotion. He, too, was afraid but masking it better than Peter knew he was himself. Sylar was afraid they'd fail this mission for the sake of innocent lives, and that was a fear that resonated fully through the empath. He wished he could say that it's easy, that it always works out and that the brave ones are rewarded for their efforts, but sadly that just wasn't the way of it. He didn't have a rosy reply that would put every query to rest or a promise that everything would be okay in the end.

Peter breathed out wistfully, then had to watch where he was going as he almost tripped over a loose wire. Sylar's question was a good one, one Peter had asked himself many times over the years. More often than not, whenever he ran into danger having no control over the outcome, he ended up dead or close to it. Yet as terrifying as it was each time, he wouldn't stop. He believed in his answer too much.

*

“Because trying is better than doing nothing at all.”

Sylar wanted this to encourage him, after all, he couldn't doubt the passion in those words and he did agree to an extent. But this was only his second ever mission as a wannabe-good-guy and his very first experience meddling with time, and he just couldn't easily look past how much he had to juggle here. Trespassing where he shouldn't be and bullshitting his way out of getting caught was the easy part, but taking on so much responsibility for so many innocents was a totally different ball game. Every piece called into play in this game was fragile, and the more the board was shaken the more damage would be caused. Sylar worried that he'd accidentally lose his grip, and when he next looked over all the players would be scattered and broken across the ground.

As an immortal man himself, sometimes Sylar forgot how vulnerable the normal human body was. Sometimes, due to his morbid past, he intended to forget that fact for good. Back in the day, Sylar had delighted in manipulating events to unfold in his favour, then watching as the little heroes all scrambled around madly while he was in control at the head of it all. With nothing to be used against him, no loose links in his chains, he had been untouchable. Now, it was so much harder to manoeuvre past the awaiting traps unscathed when he had more than just himself to look out for. It was terrifying having people that he might let down. Terrifying enough that he already felt like he'd been put through the ringer a few times over... but at the same time, it was thrilling in a way that holding the most power in the world had never been.

No wonder Peter adrenaline-junkie, leap-from-rooftops-without-flight and work-until-he-collapses Petrelli did this all the time. Sylar couldn't help but smile at the back of his friend's head as the guy narrowly avoided catching his foot in yet another loose wire. Yes, Sylar decided, it really was quite amazing having something to lose for once in his life.

*

A door opening further ahead stopped both men in their tracks. While Peter's heart leapt into his throat as he readied to confront their first obstacle, Sylar smoothly stepped in front of him, his face obscuring Peter's view of the oblivious crew member. It took a second to realise this was to feign a conversation that would, probably, look a lot less suspicious than two people standing guiltily side by side here for no reason.

“What're you doing? We need to warn them!” Peter hissed.

Sylar shook his head. “Not here. We need a bigger audience.”

The pair waited huddled together for agonizing seconds, listening. Thank God one of them had his head screwed on straight. Peter could tell that he was already too far gone for the little amount they'd done so far and the so much more still to come. He hadto get a handle on himself for such a delicate mission, one that held so many variables and hundreds of lives in the balance. Freaking out and screwing up was never going to help anything... but that didn't make it any easier to dismiss.

“We're going to save them, Peter.”

Sylar's eyes roamed over his face, watching silently and catching every drop of apprehension that Peter tried and failed to hide. How could he look so calm on the outside? Peter was aware that Sylar's expressions and emotions often refused to coincide, but the fact was that the man could easily waltz in here and keep his cool whereas Peter wouldn't have felt more obvious or impatient if there had been a flashing neon sign above his head stating _'Desperate!!!_ '. He did have to admit though, it was a comfort to be forced out of his spinning thoughts where he was reminded that he wasn't in this alone. And that he couldn't have chosen a better partner for the job.

...' _Trust me'_...

Back at the Sullivan Brother's carnival, Sylar had said a similar thing. He'd been as strong and encouraging then in the face of danger as he was now, he'd promised to help and had more than followed through on his word, overcoming every hurdle to do so. Then, Peter had wanted so badly to believe him, going on hope and dreams alone. This time he had that past experience, a successful endeavour to draw courage from. Sylar had been right before when he'd said they'd manage to stop Samuel Sullivan burying Central Park and killing thousands of people. Now, Peter could only trust that he'd be right again. They _would_ save everyone. Together.

He nodded wordlessly, gratefully acknowledging Sylar's efforts to comfort him. While the worker's distant footsteps faded, Peter took these wasted seconds to fight for composure, needily drinking in the confidence that Sylar was feeding him through dark chocolate coloured eyes. When no more sound filled the space other than two sets of lungs breathing and the hidden mechanical workings of the rig, Peter forced himself to resume the quest on a more ardent note.

“...I think it's this way.” He cleared his throat and brushed past Sylar, taking a left into an adjoining corridor and feeling the watchmaker follow loyally at his heels. It wouldn't do to admit that while Peter had assured he could find his way back to the heart of the explosion, the path that he'd discovered while here on shift looked so different when it wasn't a smoking pile of rubble. But Peter had faith, as he always did. Enough faith to keep his head high and that trusty gut feeling churning away steadily inside.

The saturated taste of adventure, danger and change was consuming Peter's senses, increasing his heartbeat and tickling his body like fingers, just the same as it had on a particularly monumental night back in Odessa. Like just now, he'd been terrified and outmatched but had trusted in destiny to keep him right; he'd hurried to Union Wells High School with no real plan and no idea who his enemy was; had no clue what to expect or what to do if he came across the man who was intent on murder; he'd just raced against the clock on hope and good intentions alone... and had happened to luck out in the end. Although, yes, he had died for his troubles, he had gained his niece, his friend, from it. And of course that had also been the night he'd first met Sylar.

Danger and change didn't have to be a bad thing. It was this thought that kept Peter marching onwards, gave him strength and stopped his knees from buckling.

*

Their silent trekking was shattered by another third party noise coming from behind an open door up ahead, causing Sylar to almost bump into Peter when he stopped so suddenly. Voices. It must be a work station of some kind, Sylar discerned. At a guess, a dozen or so people were in there.

If they were to venture into that room, some real difference would be put into motion: the first off-beat of a butterfly's wing, so to speak. Things would spiral out from here, this moment, this decision, and wipe the previous path from existence. Everything would change.

And so here was a ruthless test: hold off and go straight to the source of the destruction, maybe fail and everyone dies; or address these few innocents, guarantee _their_ safety, and possibly fail later on...? Sylar's heart started to race faster, his legs lost feeling and that hot dog was now rattling uncomfortably around an otherwise empty torso, but before he could even hope to whisper to Peter to think things over – of course the paramedic was already racing ahead and bursting into the room without even taking a second to consider his options.

Typical. Sylar followed, a bit more sensibly he might add, and from the doorway quickly assessed the surroundings. Yes, it was a work station: with control panels lining the walls and floor in neat, geometric design; there were windows in here, startling Sylar briefly when he caught sight of daylight outside (it was so easy to forget it wasn't night anymore while wandering these compressed halls); and around ten crew members were poised at their stations, their previous conversation torn off at a raw end and their shocked faces turned to the strange little man who was standing before them raving enthusiastically about danger and evacuation.

...Perhaps they ought to have talked strategies first?

*

“You need to get outta here!” Peter insisted once more, incensed with purpose and fear.

He could _do_ it! He could change the future, starting right here...! If only these people weren't all staring at him as if he were a hideous clown that had just jumped out of a surprise birthday cake. What was the matter? Didn't they hear him?!

Looking around all the confused, shocked and dubious faces, Peter's blind purpose started to ebb away in favour of humility. Okay... maybe he could have made a better entrance than that. All at once, he became extremely aware that he was the centre of attention, and not the good kind. He'd always shied from the spotlight in life, and as Nathan had been more than willing to step up for it, was never pushed too far out of that comfort zone. But now too many people had stopped in their duties to look at the madman who had randomly appeared from nowhere, unannounced and unwanted.

Trying not to show his inner insecurity, Peter focused instead on the task at hand. It didn't matter if these people thought he was crazy as long as they listened to him. “Hurry up! Get out!” He repeated, unable to process how they could possibly be so calm when most of them had already died today. Once again haunted by the memories of the charred bodies, Peter stepped closer to the still silent, watchful crowd, completely failing to hide his desperation from his voice... or perhaps to re-think his rather unfortunate wording.

“Look: something bad is about to happen! And if you don't evacuate _now_ then lots of people are gonna get hurt!”

Thank god! That seemed to have done it. A ripple ran through the workers and they began to shift, murmuring and breaking out of their unaffected stupor. Relieved, Peter hurried to the nearest worker and reached for her to aid in her escape.

“No!” She shrieked, writhing away from him in alarm. Jarred by this, Peter raised both hands and again addressed the crowd at large.

“Listen to me -”

“Uh, Peter -”

“You can't be here!” Peter shouted over Sylar's attempt to stop him. He didn't understand – they looked suitably freaked out by the news, yet everyone was frozen to the spot instead of running away! “If you don't get out now, you're gonna die.” Peter said strongly, measuredly, making sure to get the point across as simply as possible.

However, yet again, the workers failed to do anything other than tense up, pale, whimper a little and survey him with with a look that only _now_ rang true to Peter. Now he'd placed it, it was unmistakeable: the look of staring an attacker in the face. Oh.

“Wait... _no_!” He corrected, too late. Okay, _now_ he realised, thinking back, that he perhaps should have been more careful in what he'd said, been a bit clearer in his distinction to help, but there just wasn't enough time to think everything through before acting on instinct! It unfortunately seemed that Peter's instinct was sorely lacking after going so long untested. He could almost hear all the spinning plates dropping and shattering into a million pieces around him.

*

“Peter...” Sylar injected again, yet the other man ignored him a second time. Sylar watched with a mixture of pity, embarrassment and a little bit of mirth as Peter lifted his hands higher in a gesture of peace and badly attempted to salvage the situation he had so foolishly, so innocently, crafted for himself.

“It's not _me!_ Alright, someone _else_ is gonna hurt you!” The fear and distrust only amplified exponentially throughout the workers. Sylar knew this dance all too well. “Wait! No! No one's gonna hurt you! Not if you evacuate _now_! Okay? Wait! Please -”

As amusing as it was to watch this misunderstanding unfold, and as much as Sylar was tempted to stock up on this embarrassing story for later teasing, unfortunately the current circumstances were much too pressing to let this continue. No doubt Peter would get nowhere if left to his own devices, the workers also didn't seem to be going anywhere any time soon, and there was still an explosion to prevent... time was of the essence here. So although it pained Sylar to willingly embrace his old mantle, he knew it would be the quickest way to get things moving.

Stepping roughly in front of Peter, he punched a hand above his head and sent lashes of white blue dazzling light cracking into the air. “Everyone out! NOW!”

It wasn't pleasant to be regarded _that_ way, with fear, the only way he'd known for so long. It was nastily familiar, almost as if it hadn't been over eight years since Sylar had last terrorized someone. But he withstood it for the greater good. At least this act was fuelled by a better reason than in the old days.

*

It certainly worked, anyway. They'd changed the future, one way or another. As Peter stood stupidly in the middle of the floor, watching Sylar loom tall and menacing with a fist full of electricity, the workers finally began fleeing their posts and skirting around the two assailants to get to the door.

He tried not to focus on how useless he felt for his pathetic attempt at rescuing these people, and instead chose to be grateful for Sylar's moral sacrifice and quick thinking. Now the crew members' fear was deserved, however Peter treated them as gently and helpfully as he could while he ushered them out, instructing them to sound an alarm on their way to an escape pod. It was always difficult to help someone who was afraid of you, Peter had encountered this problem many times as an EMT, but no matter the amount of previous experience it stung each time to be regarded as a threat through scared eyes when he only ever wanted to help with everything he had to give.

“Take as many people with you as you can okay, buddy?” He spoke after his latest charge. Okay, that was almost all of them. Just a couple more and then he and Sylar could go on and –

_Crack!_ Peter yelped as the world suddenly span. Hot pain swarmed over his cheekbone, stabbing through his entire face and skull like sharp, angry, needle thin pincers.

*

Sylar turned from overseeing the escape just in time to catch a flailing Peter as he stumbled backwards across the control room.

“Evo _scum_!”

Shocked, Sylar quickly distinguished his ability to gather Peter properly into his arms. What the hell...? It only took a second for him to locate a sturdy, heavy man standing before them, with his face contorted and fist still raised in promise of another attack. Sylar was too distracted to properly register the fingers grasping his own, or the familiar warm tingle that transpired there. Instead he took a moment to check that his friend was mostly okay – just stunned and upset by the looks of him – and then let it rise, unbidden and unstoppable like smoke. An unfurling, all-possessing anger honed in on the man who had just picked the _wrong_ guy to mess with here...

“You _freaks_ think you can barge in 'ere and push us 'round?! Who the hell d'you think you are?!” The man squared his shoulders and firmly stood his ground. So he was willing to defend his workplace and co-workers was he? Play hero? It would have been admirable five seconds ago. If he hadn't just laid a hand on Sylar's best friend.

It was only too easily to recall the ol' deadly flame in his eyes. “Trust me...” The seasoned murderer propped Peter back on his own two feet before prowling towards the heavy man. “...You _really_ don't want to find out...” This murderous reaction would have terrified him, convinced him that he was reverting back to how he'd used to be, if he wasn't intelligent enough to realise that this was what defending a friend felt like. Honestly, it was pretty much the same as back then in that he really _wanted_ to make this guy pay, to make him hurt until he begged for mercy and was lying lifeless and immobile on the dull, grey floor... Sylar ensured this intention showed clearly on his face. But it was only for show, he wasn't going to kill him. Just scare him. Permanently...

“Hey -” A warning grip around Sylar's wrist tugged him back. “Leave it. That's not why we're here.” Sylar could easily throw Peter off and continue to teach his lesson, but Mr Tough Guy conveniently had a sudden change of heart and slipped away after his colleagues without another word. So Sylar obliged, fuming after the fucker, the last worker to exit. Who the hell did _he_ think _he_ was? To attack someone for being a different form of human than himself? Let alone a guy half his size? One who was doing nothing threatening at all? It spoke masses that Peter had been the target, the smaller of the two evos who wasn't armed or defensive in any way. Sylar found himself wishing that _he'd_ been punched instead, if only so he could have retaliated telekinetically in the next instant before anyone could stop him...

He span back around to Peter, lips still thin in warning and nostrils still flaring as even more anger burned inside. “Did he hurt you?” He asked pointlessly, refraining from touching the nasty pink mark forming over the guy's left cheekbone.

“I'm fine.” Peter insisted, although he looked thoroughly shaken, offended and guilty. Wait, guilty for being the subject of a racist attack? No, there was something else here. Something Sylar hadn't yet noticed. Fantastic. “But... when you caught me, I touched you and – I didn't mean to, I wasn't thinking!” Sylar waited with a sinking in his gut while Peter confessed like a petrified dog owning up to destroying the furniture. “...I lost Hiro's power.”

Which meant they only had one shot to get this right. Fuck. Inside, Sylar matched the same look of hopelessness and fear on Peter's face, but he successfully managed to keep it from showing externally. What they most certainly didn't need right now was for them both to be lost and caught without a paddle in the midst of these unrelenting rapids. One of them had to stay strong.

Having lived more than one life shrouded in bravado and sharing nothing but a false mask with the outside world, Sylar was more than familiar with faking a show of competence when it was needed. And if now wasn't one of those times, he didn't know what was. “It's okay. We can still do this.” Thankfully this sounded braver than he felt. And thankfully, Peter believed him. Or at least accepted his fake efforts at being brave, which was enough.

*

“C'mon. We don't have much time.” Peter regretted the word choice as soon as he'd said it, painfully reminded of the power he had just accidentally thrown away. His cheek was throbbing and his feelings were hurt, but there wasn't time to sit around and mope about it (was there ever?), so he settled on merely wincing past his tender, swelling but unbroken skin where a bruise was certainly already forming, and led Sylar deeper into the heart of the maze.

***

Two figures hurried along a metal pathway as the newly activated alarm screeched, grating and aching in a faded background noise, a soundtrack to the impending crest of battle. Peter was grateful for the alarm – the more people who got out the better – and if the guy responsible for the explosion was scared away in the process, it wouldn't be the worst thing. The noise also happened to be a convenient distraction from the running commentary of fears racing around inside his head.

“Here! It's through here!” Peter stopped before a large, locked door with a security panel mounted to the front of it. The interiors of the rig were worryingly identical, but this location was one burned into Peter's memory as one he wished he could forget. With a quick helping of electrical encouragement, Sylar enticed the door to open for them and they hurried inside: finding themselves standing at the base of a vast, empty, cold chamber housing huge pipes that rose up for at least four stories before disappearing into the shadows above.

Peter hadn't been in here before. He'd been as close as could be, a few levels up, but at the time he'd been digging for survivors this chamber was already beyond ruined. The doors had been blasted off, the room a burning, blazing inferno of hungry flames and the deadly smoke, cloaking the core of the disaster. He shivered as he looked around, half due to the dropped temperature and half due to a sickening sense of deja vu. Peter hadn't been able to find out the exact time of the explosion, the news only reported that it had happened at approximately half past three in the afternoon.

By his watch, the current time was three twenty one.

*

“Okay... this has gotta be it.” Peter looked as agitated as Sylar felt: pacing on the spot and fidgeting relentlessly with his hair, pushing if off his face more times than was needed. “This is where it happens.”

The place really didn't look so monumental. Actually, it was quite unspectacular except in scale: like the dingy underneath of a sink enlarged a hundred times over. Sylar didn't much care for plumbing, or pipes of any kind for that matter. Especially not when he was standing beside giant, monster, rumbling ones that were primed to wipe out the entire rig and almost everyone inside it.

Now that they were here, the trickiest part came into play: this called for an even fight or, preferably, one that was extremely outmatched in their favour. Sylar doubted Peter had a real plan. He was probably expecting to talk it out through peace and love with whoever was crazy enough to commit the act they were trying to prevent, or resort to a fist fight if need be. He was a formidable enemy when he wanted to be (Sylar could vouch for that one) but as there didn't seem to be any school stadiums or nail guns nearby, he doubted that Peter would really be able to outmatch his opponent effectively and quickly enough this time. Which made him a target. And Sylar couldn't bear to go through a re-run of what had just happened with Bennet back at the apartment.

Against his childish wishes not to be alone, Sylar grasped Peter's upper arm tightly enough to gather his attention away from scanning every corner of the room. The clanking and churning of machinery echoed from all angles, however he didn't need to raise his voice much to be heard. “I'll wait here, you get everyone out in case something goes wrong.”

“Wh...? No -”

“Peter, please don't argue with me on this one.” Sylar insisted, squeezing slightly with his fingers. “It's the smart choice: I'm stronger, I can't die, and _you're_ the people person. I'll bet there are loads of them up there that need your help right now.” Telling Peter Petrelli to back down from a fight...? Risky business. But telling him there are people who need him...? Infallible. At least, Sylar was counting on it. “Just don't go in yelling threats this time, and maybe keep your abilities on the down low.” He added as an afterthought.

“But I can't just leave you here!” Peter frowned. Yet it was a worried frown, not the stubborn one that only meant Sylar's cause was lost. And that, he could work with.

“I'll be fine.” His lips tugged up ever so slightly. “There's no time to fight about this, you know it's the right thing to do. And don't you dare stop doing the right thing now, Petrelli – not after all you've put me through for it!” Sylar concluded with one eyebrow raised.

He knew he'd hit the jackpot even before that resigned look flitted over Peter's face. Before the empath slipped a hand between the lapels of Sylar's stolen coat and placed it over the fuzzy, beloved and ruined sweater that he'd picked out in a store specifically with Sylar in mind. “Be careful.” He commanded deeply, his palm warm on Sylar's chest. Much warmer than Hiro's had been.

Sylar smirked. “Hey, if _your_ lot couldn't stop me after all this time, I'd like to see this guy try.” He stroked Peter's shoulder in return before reluctantly pushing him away. He watched as the empath measured up a clean path ahead and threw another questioning, guilty glance back. “Don't make me chase you off.” Sylar thrummed, his chuckle echoing away between the gushing pipes.

After one last, obligatory nod of confirmation, Peter kicked off from the ground and lifted into the air with such precision and poise the likes that Nathan could (and had) only ever have dreamed of. Sylar watched the man's form zoom higher and higher up the levels of walkways surrounding the space until he, too, was engulfed by the shadows. It was only then that he let his smile fade and his true nerves show on his face.

The chamber somehow seemed twice as big, twice as cold and twice as damning now that he was alone. Sylar suppressed a shiver. His deep, absorbing eyes slowly tracked their way around, scanning the darkness, examining the anticipation hovering palpably in the void. He had a job to do, and he _wanted_ to do it! ...That didn't mean it wasn't daunting all the same. As warm and fuzzy as it made him feel to actually be _trusted – alone!_ – at the _scene_ _of a_ _crime_ , and as certain as he was that he hadn't touched the rig before and had no intentions of doing so now... Bennet's video footage crept up unbidden in the back of his mind.

Now that he was actually standing here waiting on his opponent to show up for battle, uncertainty was truly creeping in. The man had looked dangerous. He'd looked like Sylar. The watchmaker had no clue who he'd be facing off with in a couple of minutes and didn't much care which one of his many enemies hated him so much they'd go to all this bother just to frame him (take your pick...), just as long as he _was_ being framed. Honestly, above all else, he'd rather face even Elle Bishop's burning-alive-inch-by-inch party trick a hundred times over than face a showdown with a past or future incarnation of himself.

It was just the nerves talking, he assured himself. The loneliness whispering in his ear, the gaping spaces in the dark prickling the hair on the back of his neck. It was participating in his first fight in almost a decade, and the inner doubts he had over his capabilities that were making him paranoid. Wouldn't that just be perfect poetic justice? If he had to prove himself a hero against no other than... himself? Sylar suppressed a snort. Fate would never be so obtuse.

No. Instead these thoughts just served in drawing his true feelings to the surface once more, seeping across like, ironically, oil over water. It was the same old thing, despised and craved at the same time, just as it always had been as far back as he could remember... Even here, having come so far from where he started, being almost unable to recognise himself from his own past life, it was no other than the fear of failing that messed him up inside. Hiro's inspiring message of his future nagged to be considered, but Sylar refrained from such petty hopes. Time travel was always dangerous, and blinding himself with someone else's empty promises was a habit he had long been fighting to outgrow.

Sylar grudgingly settled in for the long haul, forced to do nothing but watch and wait while his mind continued to orbit around him on fast forward. He couldn't help but confront himself with too many questions and queries as time ticked by, each second caught, counted, unable to slip past unnoticed, unaccounted for, by a watchmaker.

...What if, when the time came, he wasn't powerful enough? What if he wasn't brave enough? Wasn't... _good_ enough? ...Had those shadows been quite so dark the whole time? ...Maybe eating beforehand hadn't been a good idea after all... Were the pipes always making that noise, or was that footsteps from up high? ...How was it possible to feel both sick _and_ hungry at the same time?! ...Why wasn't the copycat showing up already? ...Was Peter getting on okay by himself?

Oh yes, Sylar thought dryly, resuming an earlier thread of thought – it certainly was _thrilling_ to have something to lose.

***

The blaring alarm muted the footsteps of Renautas's hand-picked agents. They swarmed through the corridors, undisturbed but for a few confused rig crew members who hastily heeded the call to evacuate once they set eyes on the heavily masked and armed team prowling along on a mission.

Dammit, Noah had hoped to get here before all hell broke loose, but unfortunately even a Renautas evo couldn't teleport a stocked helicopter full of agents to a semi submersible rig without the thing undergoing a safety check first – god forbid they breach protocol. It was at times like these that he longed after Primatech and the old ways: the leniency given to bend a few rules here and there when the situation called for it. While Renautas was by far more technologically advanced and better funded than The Company, the organization was too by-the-book for this nostalgic agent's liking. Especially when those rules put his life on the line.

“Taylor, get me eyes on Sylar.” He instructed, hearing an answering, stroppy sigh filter in through his earpiece.

“Duh – what else d'you think I'm doing?”

“Taylor –”

“Yeah, yeah... just keep heading straight until you come to a door.” Very helpful, Taylor! (Noah refrained from saying). “Big door, fancy lock on it, looks important. You'll know it when you see it. They went through on a lower floor, but it says here that you should come out above and can go down from the inside.”

Noah bit back what he really wanted to say and led his team through yet another identical corridor, familiar like they all were from Angela's surveillance feed. Each corner presented a fresh heart attack, and a fresh mixture of both relief and impatience when the particular tall, dark-clothed figure from the video stream wasn't standing there waiting for them. Noah wasn't afraid to do what needed to be done, but he had to admit to himself that his curiosity was bothering him enough that if he got the chance, he might hold off shooting until he finally got some goddamned answers about a few things.

Over the weeks since Noah had last spoken to either Peter or Sylar, they seemed to have done nothing much out of the ordinary together. At least, the surveillance team hadn't logged anything too worrying – the very fact that there even _was_ a “Peter and Sylar” to look out for was concerning enough as it was. Yet now here they were, plotting together to blow this place to hell?! Noah desperately wanted to get his head around this miraculous best buddies deal: what on Earth did Peter have to be thinking right now?! Noah was running on the theory that he was either not in on the whole plan, was so grief-stricken over losing Nathan that he'd lost his mind, or he was Doing An Adam all over again. For history's sake, he'd give the kid the benefit of the doubt until he knew better. As for Sylar – orders were to shoot on sight. Right between the eyes and then grab him before he recovered. Such a structured formula was a change in style for Noah Bennet, but what Renautas wanted, Renautas would get. The boss asked him to babysit her delinquent daughter? Noah would. She asked him to put years of history behind him for a quick and clean take down of the most troublesome target of Noah's entire career? Fine... ish.

He was a company man first and foremost, but no one could say Noah didn't revel in a good, old-fashioned game of cat and mouse. Adrenaline was pumping rhythmically through his veins as gas and oil did within this structure, steadying his gun hand and keeping all his senses wide and alert. The scent of danger permeating the air was an added bonus. And just to sweeten the deal, Noah fully intended on returning back to the city with the best news imaginable to replace the upset look that was still haunting him from his last glimpse of Claire at the diner. As always, she kept him going.

The team rounded yet another corridor, the path yawning out far ahead. It looked innocent enough, so unassuming, the same as all the others in every was aesthetically. Yet there was definitely _something_ about it, just a feeling that made Noah falter half a step before picking up the pace and speeding on. On, on, on, the squad allowed the siren to carry their footsteps until they'd marched over halfway down the tunnel and Noah still hadn't seen any door that looked particularly unlike the others. Irritated, he opened his mouth to tell Taylor off for wasting valuable time –

But the teenager beat him to the punch. “Woah!” The power in her usually monotonous voice was more worrisome than the word itself. “Wait! How is that possi...? He was just back there...”

“Taylor, talk to me!” Noah snapped, his instincts flaring further.

“Bennet, the target! I was wrong – he's below you _now!_ You need to... oh shit! OH SHI -”

Her last word was blasted apart by a deafening flurry of noise and destruction that slammed in from all around. Suddenly everything was too busy, chaos in its purest form, impossible to get a hold of or to do anything about. Noah was caught up unexpectedly by a ten ton force, lost control over everything he knew and was rendered unable to do anything more than just exist while his surroundings morphed and shattered around him in a single, disorientating blast of ravenous, white heat.

Then he couldn't feel anything at all.

*

Peter was shepherding staff members out of the kitchens when the ground shook beneath his feet. It caught him by surprise, threw him off balance and plunged his heart through the floor all in the space of a single beat.

...Wait! He checked his watch dazedly. Three twenty eight.It couldn't have just...! It wasn't...? They were supposed to _stop_ it!

That shake, those aftershocks that were still rumbling all around... Had it happened anyway, despite his efforts? But that meant –! Peter's chest crushed itself inwards as the truth properly got a hold on him, sinking its claws right through to his bones.

The stream of people behind him had also tumbled in the vibrations, this stranger's words suddenly so much more to them than baseless ramblings about danger and escape pods. They cried and squealed but, uncharacteristically, Peter didn't pay any attention. He didn't even notice. Rooted to the spot, unable to draw breath, he stared helplessly back the way he'd come. To where he'd left his only friend alone in the most dangerous spot in the entire rig.

_*_

The distant rumble was almost difficult to hear over the rushing of precious cargo swirling through the giant pipes. However the stomach-churning tremor would be impossible to miss. Sylar grasped for the closest railing and held on, riding out the convulsions of the metalwork with his head spinning, both from the momentum and his thoughts.

_No_...! It didn't make sense! He couldn't have failed already! How could an explosion have gone off before he even got a chance to _try_ anything...?! He steadily regained his footing as the worst of the shake subsided, then once more cast furtive, frantic eyes around the still pointedly whole and empty chamber. The assailant had never showed. Which meant that either Peter had been wrong about the location, and on this rare occasion Sylar actually doubted that... or that their coming back in time had changed more than the fate of innocent lives.

He stood alone in the cold, split by indecision and quickly running over as many variables as he could under the building stress. He was safe here in the deep, dark belly of the structure, an outsider to the destruction he could only imagine was going on up there. Should he stay and protect a potential next target? Or venture out to lend a helping hand elsewhere? Both options were risky and both carried sacrifices and he couldn't decide between them in the heat of the moment – the chess board had significantly been thrown across the room and all Sylar could do was hope that the damage dealt while his back had been turned wasn't _too_ severe.

Then every function halted mid-action. And he remembered that something extremely valuable to him was out there. Something much more precious than playing his turn at guard duty.

*

The kitchen staff helped each other to their feet, all of them muttering and whimpering and looking to their bewildered rescuer for guidance. Thankfully this lot had been much easier to deal with than the last, but Peter had just had every scrap of leadership knocked out of him by what could only have been an explosion from somewhere inside the rig.

With a growing series of _clunks_ they were all plunged into darkness. The hairs on the back of Peter's neck rose and suddenly the alarm seemed to screech three times as loud, as if to compete with the screams and swears now rebounding from the staff. It was only when the emergency lights flickered to life one by one and kissed his face with a sickly, green glow that Peter remembered to breathe again.

He still couldn't move though, was anchored only by the pounding of his own blood, as helpless and petrified now as he had been back in his apartment with a bullet lodged in his stomach. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! It was real. It was actually happening, even after all his efforts to postpone the inevitable! All these people were in very _real_ danger, and countless others could already be hurt or dead due to the explosion! Gasping for breath past the painful clamp of his ribcage, Peter put everything he had into praying that the alarm had given enough of a warning to get everyone out of harm's way this time, and kicked himself into gear only by a miracle of God.

Realistically, there was nothing he could do right now about every soul on this structure. But there were innocents right here, right now, depending on him. And all the while there was someone else tugging persistently at his awareness.

This corridor had been nothing more than mangled metal and ruined rooms when Peter had excavated it last time, and the memory flushed terror through his person. This terror kickstarted thought, thought encouraged action, which in turn triggered the most basic auto pilot Peter could muster to get him helping the stragglers to their feet.

“Move! Everyone move!” He croaked, failing to shout past the ringing alarm. He couldn't be sure if the rig was _really_ wobbling or if that was just dread making him dizzy, but either way Peter only sped up his ministrations, unfortunately having to sacrifice tenderness for urgency. The sea of blurred faces retreated down the corridor in a clustered flurry of fear and dependency, and Peter helped them go until the very last crew member was on his way: a man, older, dark skinned... familiar. Like a slap across the face Peter reeled, the spark of inconsistency jarring in an otherwise frantic scurry.

“Jimmy!” He gasped, reaching for and holding the man's arm without even considering it. “You're okay?!” Jimmy, like everyone else, was flustered and scared – and, like everyone else, he was wonderfully healthy. Peter squeezed Jimmy's arm, remembering the last time he'd seen that face behind an oxygen mask on a stretcher in Mercy Heights hospital. He couldn't begin to process how it felt to _feel_ the moment he had impacted someone's life for the better, or how desperately he'd needed this to keep him going.

“What? Yeah, I-I think so...” Jimmy stammered, too shocked to wonder why this random outsider knew his name.

“Okay! Okay, good!” Peter blurted, before looking after the retreating crowd again with context. They must've been Jimmy's friends who'd died last time. Of course... he'd been recovered around here. Shivers cascaded down the empath's spine as he was once again walloped with the realisation that he was literally experiencing the destruction he'd witnessed already. He allowed the fleeing crowd – the spared lives – to spurn him on. At least _some_ good had come of this meddling with time.

“Listen to me, bud: I need you to be brave for me. I need you to lead everyone out as safely and quickly as possible, alright? Can you do that?” Peter asked, clapping the man's arm briefly, then his shoulder, then his cheek, re-affirming that he was real, he was here, and he was _alive_.

Jimmy nodded, unsure at first before graciously accepting such responsibility. “Yeah. Yes! I can do that!”

Peter closed his eyes for a moment as he physically felt that weight be lifted from his shoulders. “Thank you.” He pulled in a deep breath before guiding the older man on after the others. “Go on, get outta here!” He watched after his charges as they ventured forth without him, his already fatigued heart stuttering when Jimmy took the time out of his escape specifically to call back in thanks.

Then he was suddenly very alone in the epic scale of the rig while the lights continued to spasm and the floor continued its maybe-rocking. And he couldn't possibly hold himself back any longer.

Peter Petrelli sprinted through the iron tunnels he'd already re-traced, to where he couldn't believe he'd actually _left_ Sylar all by himself like that! He raced along without looking back, running on foot and relying only on his thundering pulse to carry him because he couldn't trust his concentration enough to fly.

*

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed. It was impossible to tell anything, actually.

Wait... he was lying on his back, he slowly realised. His ears were aching, ringing in a continuous, shrill, piercing note. He couldn't see much more than vague, out of focus shapes and colours. It was dark, like someone had turned off the light. No – a faint red, dancing glow was coming from somewhere past Noah's feet.

He groaned and twitched his limbs, all of them sore. With his cognitive functions restored to him, he realised this was a good thing as it meant he hadn't permanently lost use of any body parts. Apart from maybe his eyes, which didn't seem to be working properly.

Noah grunted and rolled over in an attempt to sit up. His hand brushed something thin and solid nearby, stumping him for a second before he recognised the handle of his famous horn rimmed glasses. One of the lenses had all but been blasted clean out, but there was enough use in them for Noah to blink dust and dryness out of his eyes, then clearly look upon the destruction in which he lay.

“No...” He moaned, fighting to his feet with difficulty. “ _NO_!” This time he shouted, but out of all the team members who filled the ruined corridor, none were awake to hear him.

The wall had caved in on one side, blocking the space like a rockslide in an underground tunnel. The lights were off – the occasional strip trying in vain to shine a recovery beam on the scene – and flames licked around the cluttered debris pile composed of what used to be a corridor and living human beings.

Mr Bennet could barely process the sight, even as he lifted his arm to shield his face from thick smoke and painful heat. It appeared he'd pulled the luck of the draw, having just missed the chunks of rubble and fire that killed the others at his back. But he'd been too late. The place had blown up after all, just as Angela had predicted.

Then it hit, and he couldn't understand how it had taken this long to remember – Sylar. That monstrous son of a bitch had done it again! He was responsible! He had just added these young agents (agents who had been under _Noah's_ care!) to his unlimited kill list, along with probably dozens of workers from the rig. He didn't want to believe it. They were dead, he had failed, and now he had to get out of here before the place came down around him.

“Taylor?” Noah tried, reaching to his ear. No earpiece. It must've got lost in the blast, and was beyond recovery in this mess. Which meant Noah was on his own – on his own to escape... or on his own to avenge.

For all his complaining of the rookies, he didn't want to just leave their bodies behind here. Rationally, there was no use in staying, he'd benefit no one and only doom himself, but this hardened man was suddenly consumed with guilt that these were people's babies who he'd just let down. Who that same goddamed killer had mindlessly slaughtered.

Driven by rage, by loss and shame, the experienced agent hunted down his gun and dusted off his hair and face as much as was possible when soot and smoke still rained down on the surreal scene. There was no point in searching for survivors – nobody could make it out of that. So Noah re-loaded his gun and stretched his bruised but working limbs, then prepared to storm off down the open end of the corridor, the only route out and, hopefully, to the monster responsible for this.

He was going to pay! This time, he was going to pay! Screw Renautas protocol – Noah was going to empty his entire magazine painfully into the brute's chest before even _thinking_ of taking him in! Sylar wasn't going to get away unscathed this time, not _this_ time! Not again...!

But before he could even get going on this promise, movement amongst the flames swarmed into Noah's peripheral vision. Perhaps a hallucination triggered from the fall? Then there it was again: there was _definitely_ something moving through the fire. A shape. A _person_! Sinking into dread, Noah raised his gun when the initial, stupid thought that his foe had instead come to him flared up.

This theory was disregarded, however, when the figure got close enough to half-identify. Noah squinted through his broken glasses, stunned into compliance, as one of Renautas' agents steadily worked their way over the live fire and burning debris. They stumbled and coughed but kept going strong, ignoring the flames and burns covering over half their body as if they were nothing of importance. An evo?! Which one was an evo?! None of the team were registered as one!

Later Noah would blame the poor lighting and the fact that he'd just narrowly survived an explosion for the glacial progress of his understanding. But for now, it was only after the young agent cleared the fiery mess, ripped the mask off and revealed a severely burned and dehumanised face that it even remotely began to click into place. Slowly skin healed over, features re-grew themselves and ash floated away to reveal long, healthy, blonde hair.

No matter what state Noah Bennet was in, he would recognise that face anywhere.

“ _Claire_...?!”

*

It wasn't quite the defiant reveal that she had been envisaging. Claire had planned to expose her identity only once she'd single-handedly completed the mission and proved her reputable worth beyond a shadow of a doubt. Her Dad would swell with pride and apologise for ever questioning her, greet the surprise with open arms and that expression that let her know she'd surpassed expectations and he sure as hell was going to let the world know about it!

Everything had been going according to plan: the infiltration, the switch, the gathering intel through the earpiece part... until an oil rig had been dropped on her and ruined everything.

“Hi, Dad.” She said softly, sadly, but not apologetically. She didn't regret her choice to follow him, even though she'd rather have missed out on the gruesome scene she was currently standing in and wouldn't have elected such a fate for anyone.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?!” He was mad. Very mad. Worried mad, which was the worst kind of mad considering Mr Horn Rimmed Glasses. Claire refused to flinch at the gaping transition from his kindly fatherly act back at the diner to this, even when he dragged her further from the disaster site with a bruising grip on her arm. “What the _hell_ were you thinking?! This isn't a _game_ , Claire!”

The teenager bristled. How could he be so narrow minded? So obtuse as to think she would really just be _playing_ with so many lives hanging in the balance? “You think I don't know that?” She demanded, narrowing her eyes at her father's dusty, fraught face. “I didn't come here for fun! I came here to _help_ you, and just as well I did!” Throwing an arm back at the littered bodies behind her, Claire all but shouted at her father. “Your team are dead! _You_ almost died! You can't finish this job alone! Peter needs my help and – like it or not – so do _you_!”

She dared him to deny it. Was he so against spending time with her that he wouldn't even choose her company when there were literally no other options...?

*

Now pure panic was flurrying through Noah's still recovering form. It was like one of his nightmares had ballooned into reality: his team dead, the target on the loose, and to top it all off – his precious Claire Bear was slap bang in the middle of a damaged, failing, fuming death pit and he didn't know how to save her and himself and do everything else at once!

He could no longer keep calm externally, not when time was slipping and the fire was spreading and all the team got dead on his watch. Stowing his gun, Noah grasped both his daughter's shoulders tightly to help accentuate his point. “It's too dangerous for you here, Claire! I can't take that risk!”

“Why are you the only person in the world who keeps forgetting that I can't. Get. Hurt?!”

Noah shook Claire shortly but firmly, the wick of his patience all but worn down. “This isn'topen for discussion: get back to the helicopter and wait for me there!”

The fire crawled further up the corridor, the heat was creeping after them even this far along, and Noah didn't want to think of the unstable, very flammable lifeblood that flowed through the arteries of the broken structure they were trapped inside. It could re-ignite at any second...

His hearing was still slightly muffled, his vision off focus in the lens-free eye, but he could make out enough to hear Claire's breathy exhalation and see her inch back to squint at him, affronted by his clashing opinion. “You really think I'm going to _leave_ you here? In an oil rig that's on _fire_...?”

“I expect you to do what I say!” Noah demanded, boring his no-nonsense glare into her guarded eyes.

Claire huffed, parrying him the way she'd grown to do with ease. “I'm not a kid anymore, Dad – you can't just –”

“I'm not saying this as your father. I'm ordering it as your commanding officer.”

Yes, it was a tactic he was intentionally putting into play. It was a gamble no matter which way it panned out, but Noah stood by that chance. He could tell it was processing when the biting reply wasn't instantaneous, when he caught the flicker of hope cross Claire's youthful, soot-covered, newly healed face.

“As you reminded me earlier: officially, I don't work for Renautas. So you can't order me to do anything.” Claire raised one eyebrow, a challenge. “And I'm _not_ leaving you.”

It was strange how even in such an unpleasant circumstance, Noah could appreciate how impressed he was with her style. And how proud. And scared. Unfortunately, as much as he wanted to refuse it, the ex-cheerleader's angle was undeniable: Noah was in dire need of backup. Add to that the fact that he'd never been able to dissuade his Claire Bear from anything in her entire life, and it was only inevitable that she'd win here.

Giving in was never easy, especially when so much could go so wrong, and when all he wanted to do in the first place was spare his daughter any unnecessary pain. It was _not_ going to be pretty when she discovered the truth behind her uncle's involvement here... who he was working with... Noah tightened his grip on Claire's shoulders and bent his knees to drop down to her eye level.

“You have to promise to do _whatever_ I say, _whenever_ I say it, no questions asked! Can you do that?” Dammit, even though everything was working against him here, the look on his daughter's face when she realised she'd got her way almost compensated for everything else turning to shit.

“Yes.” She tipped her face up in defiance, completely unaffected by the smoke that was hanging heavily and flavouring the air Noah breathed.

“You're going to see things you won't like.” He warned, half wishing she'd just give up now and spare them all this extra trouble. “You're going to hear things that will upset you. It's not going to be an easy ride and you have to be prepared, do you understand me?”

In answer, Claire stooped and recovered a battered, but still useable, assault rifle from where it had evidentially been propelled this far down the corridor in the blast. She lofted the weapon with obscene ease for a sweet girl who should have no knowledge of such things, and right then, that exact moment, was when Noah realised there was no going back to curly pigtails, chocolate milk and teddy bears from around the world. Claire Bennet was an agent now. A world icon. A young adult. And nothing Noah could do or say was going to rescind that.

“Then it's just as well I have such a good partner to look out for me.” A wonderfully misplaced, proud smile played with the corner of Claire's lips. She knew _exactly_ how to play him... and Noah couldn't hate it in the slightest.

With a hand protectively on her back, he hurried his precious daughter further from the spreading flames and disintegrating team and into the inferno of the unknown, purely hoping that he had made the right decision for all involved.

***

Steam. Hissing loudly, billowing in clouds and consuming the vast, dim space. Heat ravaged the place, creeping through the air and soaking up all the oxygen. Rusted pipes lined every wall, every surface, casting an amber glow around the whistling, straining structure as it crumbled at the edges. The alarm wailed uselessly in the distance, a warning, a call to escape before it was too late... unanswered by the young man who ran in the opposite direction, purposely losing himself deeper inside the labyrinth.

Metal walkways and platforms criss-crossed through the chamber, climbing high up the vast height of the tower. The air only became thinner up here, so hot that it almost physically hurt to breathe, and the machinery and pipes squealed in pain as they disintegrated and broke down around the solitary figure shrouded in the midst of it all.

Peter Petrelli ran blindly, the burning fog clinging to his skin and the lights pulsing around him like a muffled heartbeat. Panting, he jogged to a stop at the base of another metal staircase, looking around hopelessly at yet another platform. His boots must have clanged on the grate, but the noise was stolen by the alarm and the gushing _hiss_ of leaking pipes all around. At a quick glance the stripped bones and rusted framework of the walkway told Peter he must've been close to where he'd left Sylar... on a higher level of the chamber maybe?

Then why was this place still standing? He'd expected to be confronted with fire and destruction before now. Maybe he'd made a wrong turn back there...? Unless the explosion had taken place somewhere else this go-around, in which case he had no clue where to even start looking for the man responsible. Selfishly, though, finding the assailant was a goal much further down the list of priorities than simply reuniting with the recovering murderer who Peter had all but dragged along to this shit show. If he was hurt... if he was _injured_ after so kindly indulging Peter's pathetic attempt to try and fix the past..!

Lost, tired and sweaty, Peter took a much needed moment to catch his breath. The air was too hot, moist, suffocating. It was unfulfilling for his lungs, caused perspiration to bead along his skin and his damp hair to swing with his ragged breaths. He shrugged off the borrowed coat, wiped his hair off his face and tried to recollect himself for duty: he couldn't stop here. Even if he was going the wrong way, he had to do _something!_ He couldn't just leave his friend behind!

So, running on little oxygen and shivering at the overbearing heat, Peter hurriedly settled on his destination and started off again in his original direction.

Any step he took was progression, he couldn't possibly be _more_ useless than if he remained here. An iron bolt shot away from the wall like a bullet, causing Peter to stumble and protect his head. Shit, the place was really coming down... Intuition alone drove him forward, steam was clouding his vision and airway and all he knew for the life of him was that he wasn't about to drag Sylar all the way here then abandon him once things starting falling apart! Literally! If only he knew where to find him...

Upon clearing another puff of wet steam, a shadow rounding the corner up ahead made Peter falter in his tracks. Sylar! Tall, slender and darkly-dressed, Peter's heart leapt at the very welcome sight of his friend stopping as he, in turn, noticed he wasn't alone.

Until that first rush of relief subsided. And fear flooded Peter's veins full-force, tainted with a hefty dose of defiance and anger that arose at the sight of the son of a bitch who'd started it all.

“I know what you did!” He barked roughly, without thinking or even caring that it might not be a very wise course of action. His voice was throaty and rough – it was a miracle it had come out at all. “I _saw_ it! I _know_ what you're planning and I _won't_ let you do it again!”

It felt unreal to stand before that man in real life, the shadow from Noah's video, the grim reaper from the past. More shivers erupted over Peter's glistening skin as he fully absorbed the sight of his unknown enemy in the flesh. He was _tall_. Terrifying. Rippling with power (or was that just the heat?), cloaked in a long, dark coat and hiding his face beneath a black cap that hauled Peter backwards in time to a highschool corridor and flying locker doors...

The shadow didn't respond. He only stood there, fading in and out of focus behind rising bouts of steam. Peter tried to swallow and look tough, very aware that he had no defences, no weapon, and no way of winning a stand-down against this evolved human. Right then, though? That wasn't about to stop him trying.

“Who are you?!” Peter growled, planting his feet firmly on the quaking grate and balling his hands into fists. As if they could do any good anyway. “Why are you doing this?! Why would you wanna kill hundreds of innocent people?!”

Yes, the man was frightening. Yes, the rig was ripping apart at the seams, and yes, Peter was severely outmatched here. But now that he was face to face with the cretin responsible for all those deaths and burned victims that he had spent the afternoon failing to save – rage had taken over his senses and Peter couldn't dream of holding it back.

“These people have _lives_! Families! Do you even care what you _did_ to them?!” He glared across the platform with all he could muster while fear was going all out to seduce him. For a second Peter wasn't sure if the shadow had even heard his words, so he took a step closer (to do God knows what)... only for everything to distort around him in a single, gut-wrenching instant.

The lurch behind his navel, the sensation of the floor being ripped away from his feet, and the winding blow of his entire body slamming into the wall should have been expected, although it caught Peter with his guards down. He gasped and mewled at the disorientation, blinking his vision back into focus while pointlessly trying to writhe free of his dreaded, familiar, telekinetic bonds.

No! Fuck! NO! He tried to fly but was anchored in place. He tried to kick but his joints were locked and he couldn't reach the key to free them. Physically trembling, Peter was unable to do anything but watch with eyes wide like saucers as his captor slowly drew closer like in his nightmares. Instinctively, his attention honed in on the man's forefinger, just _waiting_ for it to twitch and spawn the searing pain of his skin tearing open...

It was too familiar. Too similar to a time long past. And suddenly, despite everything he knew and believed in, every day he'd endured in hell with the remorseful man who was trying so hard to change... Peter could see nothing before him but _Sylar_. Not Sylar His Friend, the first person to show him what it felt like to feel valued... but Sylar The Killer, the first person to show him what it felt like to lose everything.

He was going to die. He was going to be tortured by this criminal and either finished off here, strung to the wall like a worthless rag-doll, or left to burn alive when the rig collapsed along with every hope he had harboured for saving it. He wanted to close his eyes and wish it to be over, but Peter Petrelli had been born a fighter and had never yet died timidly. So he caught every movement, every step, every twitch in his direction as the shadow loomed closer until that face was _almost_ clear enough to make out.

If he was going to end here then at the very least Peter wanted to know who was responsible for it. He refused to be disposed of as a nameless, faceless obstacle that had merely postponed this monster's rampage. He wanted answers! He wanted respect! And most of all, even if it were to be his dying wish, Peter wanted to know for sure that Sylar had not somehow been behind it all along. Please, could it be the case...?

Then a voice punctuated the space for the first time – American, indifferent, but most importantly: _unfamiliar_. “Don't make this worse for yourself, kid. I just need you out the way...”

Peter's pulse quickened further, if it was possible. His awareness was fraying and his hair was hanging wetly over his eye, obscuring his vision on one side, but he could hardly miss the towering form grinding to a halt only inches away.

Or the distant, smoky shape emerging from another pocket of steam behind it.

And there was Peter's answer, standing before him: his friend, a hero, a shining light of reassurance that couldn't have been more welcome.

*

Sylar's first thought was that of _course_ Peter had managed to get himself into more trouble. Of _course_ he had. His second was borne of pure relief that the empath had at least survived the blast, and that they'd somehow managed to find each other inside this intricate maze. His third... his third was neither grudging irony or stunned gratitude like the others. No, Sylar's third thought upon stumbling into the scene of this attack was one of unbridled fury: that this imitative fiend would dare to accost _his_ friend like this.

He stood from afar for an existential moment, taking in the sight of Peter Petrelli pinned to the wall and staring into his eyes just like he had when Sylar had been the one to violate him this way, once. It was stupefying to see this happen in third person, as if Sylar was intruding upon that memory and watching himself at work. Except this time the expression searing into him through those eyes wasn't helpless terror – it was hope. And that was what made him strong enough to pounce across the scalding platform and stab his hand out before him.

“I don't think so...!” He growled, allowing his target a shocked second to seek out his addresser before vaulting him roughly into the air. Sylar pushed his all into telekinesis, slamming the unknown shadow into the wall the way it had done to Peter. Said empath was freed from his bonds and dropped clumsily to the floor, gazing up in gratitude when Sylar crossed to his side. “Are you alright?” He asked, using his free hand to briefly grasp Peter's shoulder.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Peter gasped, patting Sylar's ribs in a return gesture. He looked a hell of a lot worse for wear than when Sylar had last seen him. The bruise on his face was really blooming now, but he didn't even seem to notice. “What about you? When the – the explosion... I thought...”

The watchmaker shook his head to dispel any worry. “I'm fine. I never even got the chance to do anything –” With a flare of outrage, he bolted his attention to the man who was now caught beneath his invisible net, trying and failing to push free with his matching ability. “Because _he_ never showed.”

Looking upon the trapped figure, absorbing the precise details of his outfit and the cap knocked haphazardly over his face, Sylar felt an inkling not unlike the Hunger weave through him. He needed to _know_ which of the pesky “heroes” had killed all those people in his name. To _understand_ why they were setting him up... It was the thrill of a successful hunt, having captured his prey and knowing there was no way out unless _he_ was merciful enough to grant one. Sylar pretended that it was only untainted curiosity (and not at all his core ability spurning him on) that made him tighten his hold on his prisoner and approach the struggling man with something less than mercy in his eyes.

Peter tensed and watched nervously from the side as Sylar batted that stupid cap away once and for all and they both feasted eager eyes on... a stranger? What? Both men froze, looking dumbly over the unfamiliar face of the person who had caused them so much trouble.

“Woah, woah! Wait!” The stranger gasped, barely a sliver of the menacing persona he'd been under the cover of mystery. If his hands hadn't been held down, he would most likely have been close to wringing them.

Sylar blinked rapidly to orient himself. It was just a guy – mid thirties, normal looking, insignificant. Was it wrong that he was more surprised by this than he would've been to have unmasked himself from a different timeline? What did that say about him...?

*

Peter's stomach lurched again and he squinted his eyes at the stranger, struggling to process this revelation. Now that the facade was wiped clean and the theatrics were stripped away, he couldn't believe he'd ever confused this man for Sylar. Sure, he was similarly built, Caucasian, dark-haired... but so were a lot of people. It was extremely disheartening to realise they'd all been corrupted – Noah, Sylar, himself – by no more than a bruised history and the power of suggestion.

Guiltily, Peter shuffled half a step closer to Sylar as if that could work a little way towards making up for failing so spectacularly in his loyalty.

*

“What is this?” Sylar hissed, ensuring to keep his ability concentrated and firm so that he wouldn't be overthrown. All this effort, all this pain... for what? He yearned to know, he craved the answers to the questions that had been swarming around him for what felt like so much longer than just a few hours.

The stranger grunted and wriggled before reluctantly accepting his position for the present. Sylar really didn't like the expression (although feigned) that was slapped on too late. As if this was where the assailant had planned to end up all along, as if it wasn't a big deal that he was captured inside the melting rig that he himself had destroyed, and he was trying to act like he had a card to play in this game. “It was just – a job. Just a job!”

Sylar tightened his telekinesis enough to make that expression flicker. He felt dangerously close to really hurting this imposter, even with Peter as a witness. A job? A goddamn _job_ was responsible all along?! Was that all his years of hard-working, bleeding penitence were worth – a paycheck...?

Employing just enough of his Intuitive Aptitude to remain on the safe side, Sylar investigated his captive with more than just his eyes. The man was deluded, hopeless. A well-spoken charmer with big ambitions and no idea where to stop... “Who are you?! Who do you work for?!” Sylar demanded, dangerously increasing the power of his grip until the stranger shed his laid-back act again and had to croak his words out.

“C-Culp! My name's Francis Culp – I work for Renautas!”

*

The painful statement tore through Peter as if he'd just swallowed dry ice. It was a truth he'd already known all along, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt to hear this speculation confirmed.

There was too much to ask, too much to find out and not enough time to do all. Steam continued to furl around them, more bolts were pinging loose every few seconds and the platform was still standing, but either Peter's balance had been severely knocked by his impact with the wall or the rig was falling apart faster.

It barley scratched the surface of what he wanted to know, but under the time limit Peter kept it as simple as possible. “Why?” He spoke up for the first time, badly repressing his anger. “Why did they want you to frame Sylar for these deaths?”

The pressure on Francis's throat visibly lifted and he swallowed. When he next spoke his voice was more strained. “I don't know any 'Sylar'. I don't know about framing anyone – even if that's true it's not the kind of thing they tell you, y'know? Renautas chose me for what I can do. I don't know why, I didn't ask. All I know was I was told to wear these clothes, keep my face out of cameras and start a fire. Easy dough.”

Mind reeling, Peter dodged another whistling bolt and turned to look to Sylar for answers. He didn't know what else to do, or how to express the punch to the gut of unveiling a random guy who was clearly only a pawn in someone else's agenda. He knew it must be affecting Sylar too, maybe more: there was so much more going on behind the scenes here. They'd barely tapped into the ends of it.

*

Sylar tried to shake his head into clarity. His feelings were spilling over and blotting his rational thinking, he was kept constantly on the edge of burning up and healing back to a manageable temperature, and above all else it wasn't exactly like they could take their merry time here.

He licked his lips and imposed a formidable tone. “Who hired you?”

Beads of sweat rolled down the imposter's temple, possibly from the rising heat, the interrogation, or both. “I... I shouldn't say.”

Sylar forced a roll of his eyes, recalling how much easier it used to be to toy with people than to let them see they'd hit a nerve. “Oh, I'd suggest you re-think that strategy. Is it _really_ worth dyingover...?” It was only intended as a threat, but perhaps it slipped out a little too easily. Sylar suspected that maybe a ghost of electricity crackled over his skin, a suspicion confirmed by the placement of Peter's pleading hand on his back and the increase of fear in the stranger's eyes.

They hadn't even arranged what the plan would be once they found the assailant. If it had come to a one on one fight then Sylar would probably have felled his opponent just short of death. This, however, wasn't a fight. It wasn't the same, and he refused to execute this man like the killer he'd once been. The cretin still deserved to pay, he still needed to be taken care of, but not at the cost of straight-out murder.

Sylar sucked in as much of a breath as he could salvage in this turgid air and tried to regain a level head. “Here's how it's going to go: you tell us what we want to know and I let you free. And you'd better hope you find your own way out of this place.”

*

While Francis stewed for too long over Sylar's generous offer, a great, creaking groan splintered through the skeleton of the chamber. It was definitely getting hotter in here, which meant that fire had to be close behind...

Peter knew Sylar wasn't done here. _He_ wasn't done either. He would be upset, too, if he managed to find someone impersonating him and tarnishing his name – hell, he _was_ more than upset just for Sylar's sake! But if the options were to stay, interrogate a suspect and burn in the process, or to leave now and have time to escape – Peter knew which one he was gearing towards.

“Sylar...” He murmured, stepping up closer to the taller man and tugging on his sleeve. “Let him go, we don't have time to do this.”

Sylar's confused face snapped to Peter's direction. “You want to leave without finding out who's at the roots of this thing?”

“No. But we don't have a choice.” He let out a sympathetic breath and hoped his reasoning showed on his face.

The former murderer's attention released fully from Francis for the first time since his unveiling, instead boring deeply into Peter as he visibly let go of his personal attachments to the mission. The empath watched those dark eyes roam over his sweaty face, linger on his smarting cheek, then expand their search to the crumbling environment before sliding closed in acquiescence. It was tough for him to let go and back down (in every aspect of his person, Peter knew too well), yet Sylar nodded and observed him with reluctant understanding.

“You're right, Peter. ...Let's go.”

*

_Peter_...? ...Of course! How hadn't he noticed until now? Now he _saw_ it, now he couldn't _not_ see it...

Maybe it was the combination of knowing his freedom was promised and wanting to assert some superiority before scurrying away to the Renautas helicopter like some twerp, but whatever it was was enough to make Francis raise a knowing eyebrow. Although he was still glued to the wall in the rather humiliating state he normally inflicted upon the loan sharks and whichever cop had the misfortune to track him down, Francis hadn't spent years acting like he knew what he was doing for nothing.

“Right!” He exclaimed. “You're the Petrelli kid, I knew you were familiar.”

His surprised captors turned back to him then, seemingly so absorbed in each other's eyes that they'd even forgotten he was here. The scary one pierced him again with that glare, so Francis chose instead to smirk at the smaller one, the more pliable one. He _did_ rather enjoy this moment of control. It wasn't as ego-stroking as the ultimate power he'd held earlier before his identity had been revealed (the badass coat had definitely had something to do with that, he suspected), but as long as he could, he would milk this rare chance to be seen as something more than a not-so-bright, failed gambler who'd happened to luck out late in life with his ability.

“What's that got to do with anything?” The pretty little man frowned defensively, worriedly. How the hell did Francis not notice the resemblance before...?

He allowed his best grin to widen and shine handsomely, a 'fuck you' through a dazzling exterior. “Yes...” He mused as if to himself, recalling an expensive, airy room and stunning, hazel eyes. “You look like her, y'know?”

The smaller man narrowed those very same eyes behind long hair, still not quite there yet, but the scary man got it. It clicked into place in time for Francis to notice and catch the warning grasp form around the other's wrist.

“If you make it out of here...” Francis drawled smugly. “Tell Mommy I demand a bonus.”

*

The chamber couldn't possibly get any hotter, yet Peter suddenly felt light-headed and drained cold. Just as well Sylar's fingers tightened on his wrist, because otherwise Peter was sure he would have finally succumbed to his wavering balance.

He opened his mouth to speak twice before his voice finally made it to the surface, small and husky. “My... my mother paid you to blow up the rig.” It seemed _so_ obvious now. So much that Peter felt he well and truly deserved an award for stupidest person on the planet. Make that stupidest, most heartbroken person on the planet.

But... Francis had said – Renautas...? Oh. He didn't even bother finishing the thought. Add another medal to his collection – he should have realised _weeks_ ago that Angela Petrelli had a hand in her Company falling by the wayside and a newer, grander one rising from the ashes with information and skills it shouldn't possess. So Primatech hadn't died and merely passed on its legacy, after all. No. It had _evolved._

*

That fucking woman was determined to break her son. Sylar followed, his sympathy overcoming anger for the moment, as Peter backed a few steps out into the open to let this process.

“Peter...” He said gently, turning his back on Francis but making sure to hold him firmly in place. It was bizarre... Sylar had never witnessed this before (as himself in his whole, rightful mind, that was): the exact moment of Angela's betrayal on her youngest child. Of course, he'd witnessed the aftermath a few times, and it was never very pleasant, but there was something just so hopelessly raw about being an observer to such a hurtful, private moment at its initial impact. Having experienced such a pain first hand by both his “mothers”, Sylar knew there was nothing he could say to soften the blow. So he just held softly onto his friend, feeling his frantic pulse beat underhand.

“She... she set you up.” Peter blinked dazedly as his mind unravelled the issue, looking up at Sylar like he was suffering from a boot through the stomach. He hadn't even looked this lost or hurt back in his apartment while bleeding to death. “She wanted to... turn us against one another? To get rid of you... take you away? Away from me.”

Motherfucker. Peter was most likely correct. It burned worse than the pipes lining the platform would to touch. Angela hated him so badly (okay, she _did_ have a pretty good reason, but still) that she would sacrifice hundreds of people to justify Renautas dragging him away into some sick, torture lab – and that was if he was lucky! She would go to such lengths, and against Peter's multiple insistences, to rip them apart? When all they had wanted was to be left alone to do their part in helping the world...?

It stung like a bitch, but Sylar wouldn't let himself submerge in it here. Not when there was still the small matter of a burning rig to flee, a currently snooping bad guy to deal with and a friend to support. He couldn't break his gaze away from Peter's pained face – pained from so much more than an unwarranted punch – especially not when the deepest, darkest conclusion clunked into place inside the little man.

*

Peter let out a stuttering gasp, suddenly blinded by a photographic slideshow of countless, burned victims speeding across his vision. “All this... this is _my_ fault!”

“What?! Peter, don't be -”

“She killed those people _because_ of me! Because I didn't want to lose you!” As if it wasn't difficult enough to breathe here, Peter started hyperventilating. He felt the self-explanatory sting behind his eyes and nose and perhaps he might've already been crying if the heat hadn't been soaking up all moisture.

“Peter, _don't!_ ” The hold on his wrist intensified so it was almost hurtful, but Peter craved the physical pain to draw him away from the emotional. Heaving to catch a breath, he looked between Sylar's familiar eyes, familiar in their design and purpose. “Stop.” The watchmaker spoke clearly, calmly. “I know you're wound up, I know you're frightened, but you have to stay focused. We'll deal with this later, okay? _Together_. This was _not_ your fault.”

Peter recoiled, just barely resisting the urge to haul on the front of Sylar's coat. “How can you say that?! You _know_ I'm right! She told me to give you up but I didn't! She can't stand the fact that I found a friend in the guy who killed her favourite son -”

A rattling inhalation. Then a new voice. “ _Tell_ me that's _not_ true...!”

Peter was knocked into silence by the perfect cherry on top of the perfect situation. He could have passed out then and there from stress, fear and dehydration. It would certainly be the easier route than the alternative, at least. But he was no quitter. So it was with faint disbelief that he tore his gaze from Sylar's, sent it searching around the dark, smoky platform, and set eyes on no other than his armed, beloved niece and her adoptive father. Holy shit.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Peter – holy shit, indeed! I can't BELIEVE it's taken me so long to update! 2 whole months, omg DX I'm sorry for such a delay. It was going to be longer, though, but it's taken so long to get this far and there's still more of this section to come and the chapter is already 25 pages long...!!! So I decided to stop here and continue it in a new one instead ^.^
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the update! I can tell you it's been an exhausting, long one for me to write hehe, and I hope it was worth it! So, yes. Now you know (some of) the truth of the explosion and Sylar's copycat. Let me know: surprised? Did you guess it all along? Oh, Angela, what a woman...!
> 
> P.S. Francis is a real character from Heroes Reborn who works for Renautas. They definitely tried to manipulate him in the Reborn trailer to come across as “the new Sylar”, so I thought I'd see them and raise them at their own game heh heh X)


	11. Burning Bridges

“ _Tell_ me it's not true, Peter!” Claire repeated, this time a shrill command that bounced off the walls encasing the platform. More steam continued to whirl through the air. The party stared at each other in shock. Nobody answered her desperate plea.

No _way_ was this what it looked like! How could it be?! It was impossible! It must be the heat, or a trick of the light, surely?! Claire's pristine vision and immaculate hearing must have been malfunctioning, because it _looked_ and _sounded_ a lot like her uncle, the most loyal person she had ever met, was in cahoots with her personal tormentor...

Claire Bennet didn't often doubt herself. This sight, however, was one she just couldn't begin to distinguish from those amongst her darkest dreams. A captive stuck to the wall in an all too familiar fashion; that significant, black baseball cap discarded on the floor; and last but not least, Sylar himself, in the flesh, standing before her oh so brazenly as if he was actually welcome! But coming face to face with that bastard wasn't the worst part, and it wasn't even that Noah was right and Peter definitely seemed to be up to something questionable after all... it was that he was here with Sylar. _With_ him! _Holding_ him! Turning to him for support the way he'd used to look at Nath –

“Claire...”

It was Peter who first shattered the dead air. Dazed, the teenager squinted at her hero but was unable to recognise him. He looked even worse than he had back at Mercy Heights, if that were possible – now even sporting a purple bruise over his left cheekbone. It wasn't that, though, which disfigured him in her eyes. It was the expression on his face. Guilt, sorrow, fear, all stirred into one... it said everything. Said so much more than even Sylar's fingers slipping away from Peter's hand like a guilty child having been caught out. Claire blinked rapidly in hopes of erasing the image now branded into her memory. One of tenderness.

“What're you even _doing_ here?” That voice, the one that rolled chills down Claire's spine every time she heard it, only hammered another nail in deeper. Everyone ignored Sylar's question. It seemed so irrelevant now, and even if Claire had been so gracious as to give that cretin her attention, she couldn't stop staring at Peter... at the handsome young man who had used to be her safe place.

“Claire, please, let me explain -” He started forward and her face crumpled further. Unable to recover her voice, she recoiled from the advancing empath and bumped back into the ever steady form of her father.

“That's close enough, Peter.” Noah growled. A quiet, metallic click sounded from somewhere over Claire's head, and she couldn't bring herself to care for those implications. She couldn't even care for the oil rig that was burning at all sides outside the protective shell of her ability. It was nothing in comparison to this betrayal tearing her heart in half.

Claire could actually _feel_ her intention to save her uncle from a crazy misunderstanding die. It was awful to think she'd been so worried about him earlier. He'd _lied_ to her at the hospital! He'd sat there, looked into her eyes and _promised_ that his only thoughts of Sylar were concern over _her_ safety! And she'd stupidly bought every single word of it! She remembered thinking he'd been such a mess, worn, hiding something huge behind tired eyes and a sad smile... and even though the thought of Peter Petrelli of all people joining a terrorist group and hurting innocents to make a statement about human rights had to be the most ridiculous thing ever – _this_ was so much worse.

*

Peter stopped as commanded, but not because of Noah. Because of Claire. He recognised that he should be more worried by the man who had already killed him today than he was, but the upset, petite young girl was much more of a threat than the experienced gunman standing right behind her.

His heart fractured even further at the look on Claire's face. It wasn't just pain. Or repulsion. Or betrayal... she was _scared_ of him. Being shot, falling to his death, failing to save the rig, experiencing first hand evo hate, and discovering that his own mother was once again at the heart of a despicable scheme clearly wasn't enough pain for today. Having this fear wrenched from him and played out live was only a natural conclusion to the shitstorm, it seemed.

The panic attack building inside Peter's chest finally erupted. It should have overwhelmed him for sure, but for some reason the burning embers only dissipated. Possibly it was due to too much stress to physically cope with, delirium from overheating, or maybe it was the natural instinct to be strong for his niece kicking in. Whatever the reason, it was actually a sick sense of relief when Peter broke so far past the limit that all his worry congealed into one numb, manageable mass inside.

For the first time since the new additions had joined them on the platform, clear thought began to tumble through Peter's mind. Now there was no excuse to push this confrontation further into the future; he'd known all along that his naïve attempts to keep Claire happy would come around to bite him in the end. He'd just hoped it wouldn't have to happen so soon...

“Listen to me.” He said gently, fighting to be heard over the commotion of the rig without coming across aggressive. “I know this is confusing, believe me, I get it. And I wish I could... explain it. But I can't. Not here. All I can say is that Sylar isn't the same person you knew.” Peter pressed. “He's changed, he's different now. I _swear_.”

Claire's eyes bulged at this, as if it was the only thing he could have said to make matters worse. “How can you _say_ that?! Don't you remember what he _did_...?! He _assaulted_ me! He _killed my father_!” Peter's internal organs twisted harshly. “...Your own _brother_!”

“Of course I remember.” Clenching his fists at the memories, he forced his expression to be earnest, sympathetic, genuine. “But he's not like that anymore, we've... been through a lot since then. Please try to understand.” It didn't matter that he knew perfectly well that she was as stubborn as every Petrelli in the bloodline and wouldn't back down from her opinion. Because Peter wouldn't either. He couldn't _not_ try. “I trust him, Claire.”

*

The girl's unwelcome reminders of Sylar's deeds ripped through the steam and into the man himself. He felt his brows lower and lips thin: a protective reaction, defensive. He felt either electricity or fury lift the hairs on his arms, felt his feelings take the punch and bruise instantly (yes, as juvenile as that sounded), because of _course_ his second ever heroic mission just _had_ to be dragged through the muck of his past...

Even though it had been close to a decade since Sylar had last stood face to face with Claire Bennet, he realised he hadn't missed her at all. Or the girl's incredible talent to exude disgust without uttering one word. Sylar hated that skill more now than he always had. It was a new experience, though, to not be the only one on the receiving end.

She was looking at Peter almost the same way she looked at Sylar... with such fear... distrust... Ouch. Yet there was Peter, staying true to his word and standing by Sylar anyway. The watchmaker could only imagine how deep Claire's reaction must be cutting the little man, the guy who (for some godforsaken reason) couldn't even fathom her as anything less than a porcelain angel. It was bullshit, she was anything _but_ , however even though Sylar didn't agree with his friend's delusions he _did_ appreciate the sentiment behind them. It had taken years, after all, and maybe Sylar was still learning the complexities of families – but one thing he knew for sure was Peter's infallible devotion towards his loved ones. Whether they deserved it or not.

It didn't feel like years ago to recall the first time the empath had confessed to him. It had been another lonely day, after another pointless fight, when he had let slip the truth about his so-called family. And all at once Sylar had seen it too – none of them gave a fuck about him. None of them cared until they needed something he could provide. Of course Peter hadn't meant it badly, it had just been stating unfortunate fact... but Sylar would never forget the look on his face or the tears in his eyes that nobody else would ever see.

How many times since then had both Peter and Sylar been aware of it, skirted around the topic or bitten each other's heads off because of it? Sylar couldn't even keep count. For all the Petrellis' many declarations of love to one another, they really were a heartless bunch, including Claire, excluding Peter of course. All that mattered was that they _both_ knew the unfortunate truth of the matter, yet Peter still loved his family in spite of it. He loved Claire, he wanted to protect her and stop anything bad from ever happening to her... but the Indestructible Girl could hardly back up her claims in return. It pissed Sylar off more than he had ever expressed aloud.

But it wasn't just guilt at the rig or frustration at Claire's undeserved free pass that was winding him up. It was the fear of losing Peter to the same fucking demon that had taken years to evade.

Sylar was very, _very_ , unfortunately aware that Peter struggled with a serious issue of disrespecting Nathan through their... association. And every whisper of the dead Senator's name stabbed Sylar with the insecurity that Peter would relapse again. Sure, they had _finally_ made it past that last hurdle with the crumbling of bricks, but the scars had not quite faded and Sylar would rather burn in this sinking rig than stand here and do nothing while a little girl pissed over that progress right in front of him!

... _'I trust him, Claire'_...

Claire was yet to provide a vocal response to Peter's declaration, and because there wasn't time to be shy and because Peter couldn't physically be the one to break her heart, Sylar stepped up to share the burden. This was his moment, even though they'd both been dreading it for a long time coming.

Truthfully, Sylar had hoped he wouldn't be anywhere in the vicinity when Peter took one for the team and broke the news to Claire, but in the guy's current, rather fragile, mental state – Sylar wasn't about to let this little brat beat him to a pulp. So he stood close enough to Peter to be a comfort. A moral support. A statement.

“It's true.” He refrained from tacking on 'I'm sorry' because he wasn't. Far from it. He wasn't sorry at all for his only meaningful relationship. Just a little guilty that it had to be such an issue for outsiders.

*

“Don't you speak to her!” Noah snapped suddenly, his gun aimed true at the murderer. “You don't even _look_ at her!” Surprisingly, Sylar appeared to fall into obedient compliance, but Noah wasn't fooled. Strategies were still swirling around in his mind's eye, an inevitability, not a possibility: Renautas wanted Sylar taken in... but what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them, right...? ...Noah didn't even have to _kill_ the man to do it... just drop him long enough for the rig to do the dirty work...

Claire was huddled against Noah, lost for words, flaring his protective father reflexes. She was reduced to a mere shadow of the agent she'd just so avidly insisted she wanted to be, defeated at the first sign of conflict. Which was _exactly_ what Noah had wanted to spare her from. If he didn't love her as much as he did he would use this example to call her out on not being ready for duty and send her packing. As it was, the particular Sylar/Peter circumstance was one that still jarred nastily with Noah – and he had only a fraction of the emotional involvement that his daughter did!

That didn't mean he had _none,_ however.

Wizened eyes scoured the place from behind one and a half horn-rimmed lens, lingering on the human being trapped against the wall. Noah's face rippled with anger before he once again recalled his standard, expressionless mask with less ease than he would have liked. “I have to say I'm disappointed in you, Peter.”

*

Noah Bennet spoke steadily, almost calmly, but his tone was somehow loud enough to compete with the ringing apparatus that was straining on all sides. Peter tried his best to mirror the calm authority of the man opposite, but his heart was hammering against his ribcage and he was physically shivering under the unbearable heat of this place, roiling through his body and dewing sweat along his skin.

“I'm not the enemy here, Noah.” He insisted, already uncomfortably familiar with the murderous device in the agent's clutches. “I don't want to fight you. We can talk this out... okay?” It didn't have to resort to violence... it didn't have to end in blood again... “You _know_ me.”

Claire's mutilated hiss shot through the steam. “ _Do_ I?!” They were definitely words wrapped around a sob, a sound that stabbed right through the empath's gut. He glanced again at the almost unrecognisable form of his niece. His heart broke a little more when he saw the rage twisting her features, the disdain being thrown at him... the gun in her hands may as well have shot him when she turned it his way, for the pain it caused inside.

*

“The guy I knew wouldn't _dream_ of insulting Nathan like this...” One tear of betrayal glistened in Claire's eye before rolling down her cheek, only to evaporate almost instantly. Voice lost, she sliced a glare over Peter's shoulder. She hoped her accusation sliced right into his heart.

Nathan... Superman... he had been Peter's idol as Peter was to her: an inspiration, a protective older relative who should always be there to keep you safe from harm. Peter and Nathan's unconditional love had always been unrivalled, stronger even than the elder's affection for his own _daughter!_ So much that often Claire had actually found herself envying the brothers' bond. Yet Peter could now so brazenly spit on Nathan's grave like this? Then have the _nerve_ to act like Claire was in the wrong for being upset...?!

She couldn't do anything other than stand there, hopes dashed, assault rifle on autopilot in her hands. Maybe her father had been right all along... she wasn't a competent agent ready to take on the world. Such dreams trickled into nothing more than the foolish hopes of a blind little girl who couldn't handle getting her heart broken for the hundredth time.

It should have been too noisy in here, but she could hear Peter's words anyway. She could _feel_ them patter off her invincible skin. Could hear _only_ his voice, like the rest of the screaming rig had narrowed into this moment, everything else had dropped away and what was left was running on delay.

*

“Claire, please, don't be like this. Sylar's not gonna hurt anyone -”

“Tell that to my team.” Noah painfully recalled being forced to leave his fallen crew behind. “To the civilians who just died here.”

Peter blanched. Conflictingly, considering his part to play in the entire fiasco, Noah swore that the despair painting over the young man's features was genuine. “It wasn't us, you have to believe me –”

“I don't “have”to do anything.”

“You used to _trust_ me! Why is that any different because I trust Sylar?!”

“No offence, Peter, but your judge of character hasn't been very encouraging in the past.”

The words ricocheted briefly before being swallowed up in the depths of the cavern. Noah wished it didn't affect him to see the traitorous man hurt by this. “...You're right.” He confessed.

This shocked Noah. That was usually the part where defence or denial came swinging into play.

“I make mistakes.” Peter admitted, taking the opportunity to sneak one step closer. “It's only human, right? We're not superheroes. Just men, trying to do the best we can to make up for our wrongs. You, me... Sylar. Everyone should at least get that chance, right?” He tilted his head as he spoke, distracting Noah enough by the movement that he almost didn't notice how much the distance between them shrank. Damn, the young man was playing his part to perfection, at any rate.

Only... perfection still wasn't enough.

“Sorry.” Noah said, not sorry at all. “But you understand my hesitation?” He drawled sarcastically, observing the scene again through streamed up glasses: the victim gasping on the wall, Sylar's outstretched hand flexing to silence him, ruthless as always. “Set him down, Gabriel. Slowly.” Noah commanded, wiping his lens with his free hand and nudging his gun in the direction of the victim. The impatient huff that greeted him didn't do anything to stem his rage.

“Bennet, the rig is coming down! If we all want to make it out of here wecan't stay and chit-chat!”

“I said _set him down_.” Noah repeated, practically growling this time.

*

Noah's demand shook Peter, seeping his awareness back together while watching as if from far away. Shit – he'd totally forgotten that Francis was even here! Truthfully, he had been too invested in Claire until now to notice much else, even that their relentless hunter had found them once again, as if jumping through time shouldn't even be an issue. It was impossible to keep his head above the tide and deflect both attackers vying for his attention at once, but now he was well aware that the agent's gun was trained on them for what felt like the millionth time that day; and that Francis was not helping his and Sylar's argument in the slightest.

At his side, Peter could feel the frustration wafting off Sylar like hopelessness was rising from himself. It just wasn't fair. They'd tried so hard to do the right thing here, and after all their hard work...! But there was no easy way out of this intricate web they'd spun for themselves.

Last time, “negotiating” had spiralled out of control far too fast without much hope of stopping it. This time, however – a real second chance – provided the option to do it right. And Peter intended on trying, at the very least.

The words were heavy as they left his lips. “Do what he says, Sylar.”

“But -!”

Peter just shook his head dejectedly in response to the guy's sour expression.

*

Although he didn't want to admit it, Sylar knew that Peter was probably right. An implied hostage situation was _not_ what he wanted to convey here, and certainly wouldn't do them any favours while attempting to prove their good intentions. They _had_ been just about to let this guy, Culp, go anyway. But if they lost him now – there went any evidence that could correlate with Peter and Sylar's story. Was it better for Sylar to let the captive go for the brownie points, or to stick to his guns and keep hold of the alibi...?

The watchmaker's thought process was hurried along by another ground-shaking groan from the rig. With a lead weight in his gut he lifted his telekinetic restraints. It wasn't the threat of bullets (although, yes, now heavily resented for their frequency in Sylar's recent life) that pressed his hand, or the fear for Peter's mortality (thankfully Noah in this time didn't yet seem to have come to the genius conclusion of using the empath as bait), but instead his most agonizing motive yet: the want to be taken on his word.

Sadly, it quickly became apparent when Francis scampered away that it was going to take _much_ more than that gesture of good will to win over _this_ crowd.

*

With the hostage released, Noah gained the confidence to push forward under the narrowing deadline. He grasped gently onto Claire's shoulder, feeling it twitch underhand as she continued to simply stood there in shocked horror. It looked like Noah's persistent partner was going to be of no use after all, but despite everything, he couldn't deny that he was glad of her presence. The literal embodiment behind his motivation wasn't exactly easy to overlook.

“Renautas won't be forgiving.” He told his prisoners, grimacing in a flicker of sadness for Peter's benefit. “They've got you on tape.”

“Oh where have I heard _that_ before...?” Sylar muttered to himself.

Noah's question was derailed by Peter stepping forward again, despite the weapon trained upon him. The foolishly noble man was now almost midway between Sylar and Noah, an arm reached out to both of them as if holding them back from running at each other like kids in the schoolyard. Normally this would be a preposterous idea for a well-educated, successful, middle aged man to partake in. Normally.

“We didn't do anything wrong here.” The empath insisted. If Noah wasn't the hardened man he'd grown to be, he might even be swayed a little by the seemingly genuine words. It didn't fit with the rest of the facts, though: Angela's tip, the video proof, catching them red handed at the scene of the crime... “We were just trying to stop the rig from collapsing. Alright?”

“Is that so...?” Noah mused. Peter nodded sincerely. “...In that case, how did you know it was going to happen?” It was the millionth unanswered question when it came to these men (there was no way in hell Gabriel Gray had really been repairing watches all these weeks of observation, for example) but Noah knew better than to expect a full answer.

Sure enough, Peter's mouth pressed into a stoic line that no secret could sneak past. His answer was laid out with extreme care. “We knew Sylar was being set up... by Renautas. That guy we just... he was hired to look like Sylar. We only wanted to clear his name.”

“Renautas is working towards a better future, we're trying to _prevent_ stunts like this.” Privately, Noah had expected at least something a bit more creative. Such a cock and bull story was actually disappointing after hunting for answers for so long but beggars can't be choosers. There would be plenty of time to interrogate them individually back at HQ – considering everyone made it out of here alive, that was.

*

The last of Noah's patience visibly dissolved and his voice grated out like a sharp, rusty knife. “Like it or not, I'm taking you in, boys! You're a danger to society; you're a danger to yourselves! Don't make this harder than it already is 'cause I can assure you – Renautas has the means!”

Sylar scoffed. “Yeah I'll bet they do, it's just like Primatech! You're targeting and attacking people for no reason? What a way to a “better future”...!” He could easily have gone on, but zipped his lips when Peter's fingertips tapped his chest warningly.

Noah continued. “We're helping people like you. Giving them information, homes. After we took in Samuel Sullivan we rehabilitated the carnies we could trust -”

Peter sucked in a ragged breath. Even though he could only see the back of his head, Sylar could picture the expression on his face right now. He'd caught it too, the connotation in Noah's supposed-to-be-valiant speech that also just happened to be one of Peter's worst fears about the future.

“The “ones you could trust”...? You're _hand picking_ who to drag away from their families and homes based on their ability?! That's not helping people, Noah! What you're doing is segregation! _Kidnapping_!”

Sylar had to admit this wasn't much of a surprise. Especially in accordance with Angela's elaborate plot to get rid of _him_. It was just the sort of morally-grey bullshit that would lure Noah in when taking on a new job. The good, trustworthy agent who'd shoot countless people for dog treats from the boss, who never asked questions before condemning a life, but could sleep well at night because he could convince himself it was “for the greater good”... No, it wasn't out of character at all. It was _just_ the type of thing that Sylar hated most about the man.

Right on cue, good little employee stepped up to defend the signer of his pay checks with the same ignorance he usually did. “It's what we've always done, Peter.” He said simply. “It's damage control, that's all this is. Some people with abilities can't be trusted, and if Primatech – or Renautas – wasn't cleaning up these messes, you bet your ass you'd know about it!”

*

“That doesn't make it okay!”

“D'you know how many near misses we've dealt with since the carnival? ...Seventy _nine_.” Noah's voice still effortlessly competed with the straining pipes and bolts at all sides. “Now that evos don't have to hide their powers they're out of control. We've got buildings burning down, revenge killings, party tricks gone wrong – last week we even stopped an Earthquake in California!”

It would be so much easier to just claim that Noah was wrong, no alternative. But Peter hated to think that he'd heard this speech before... once upon a time... from his own lips. It was almost exactly what his future self had warned of after teleporting Peter into the timeline where abilities were out in the open. The timeline nobody else living had seen. The one where, left unchecked, an unstable ability would split the entire world in half.

“Think what you like, but this is a necessary service. Someone has to do it, be that Primatech or Renautas, and it just so happens Renautas are most capable to deal with the sudden... expansion of charges.” Peter could tell that Noah was trying to appeal to him now – he had adopted his fatherly figure routine. It was chilling how different he could look, even down a barrel of a gun. “You're the one always wanting to save lives, Peter – tell me we don't need counter measures in place.”

Peter's dry, hot eyes scratched as they sightlessly searched the platform. He licked his lips, thoughts and memories and nightmares whirring past his vision like a gruesome film reel on replay. “...There are other ways.”

He needed only to think back to his own abilities at the beginning of all this, how badly they'd overwhelmed him until he'd literally exploded from holding too much power. The seemingly perfect solution of a safe facility had, of course, turned out to be a trap – a prison that had sheared Peter's hair, abilities and, later, his entire personality from him against his will. Thankfully the amnesia-weeks dulled the four month prison sentence in his mind (at the time it had seemed like forever, but next to five years in hell, those four months were a breeze), but he could still recall the fear, desperation and depression that had engulfed him down in that cell.

And that had no doubt been first class treatment for a child of a Company founder. Peter didn't even want to imagine what had happened to the people taken since. “You can't just lock us up like animals! People can change! They can control their powers if you give them the chance!”

*

Sylar listened to his friend's morality, knowing he was speaking first hand from the heart. He agreed and itched to vocally say so, but right now he trusted Peter to do the sweet talking. Until he was needed, at least.

“You should _teach_ them! Not dispose of them like people's lives mean _nothing_!”

“We're protecting the world, Peter.”

Possessive rage zipped along Sylar's nerves and he snapped. “No _we're_ protecting the world!”

“' _We'_?!” Claire retched the word through gritted teeth. Deliberately. Coldly. “How _dare_ you...?!” If looks could kill, Sylar was sure he'd be beyond cremated – for real this time. His offered patience sludged back into place like a slapped hand with no cookie. “ _Peter_ might've forgotten what a monster you are – but I never will! ...You can win him round with whatever new ability you've ripped from someone's skull, you can play the victim and get him to feel sorry for you... but you can _never_ be his friend!”

Sylar felt his defences rise higher, and this time he wasn't sure he even _wanted_ to hold back. So he was supposed to just listen to this after _he_ was the one who'd been there, _he_ was the one making sure Peter didn't work himself to death but she shared his blood and never called and that's fair...?

“I'm sorry...” He wiped his wet hair back from his face. “But where the hell have _you_ been these past weeks...? Oh right, I forgot, “inspiring millions” right?” He laughed and slapped his hands to his thighs, but it was short lived, a far cry from his usual display of effortless dominance. His next words were launched across the platform like a javelin. “Just because you're connected by blood doesn't mean shit, princess. Even _I_ know friends should be more than ignored until you can't think of anything better to do with your weekend.”

This outburst was apparently so unexpected that the entire rig even seemed to halt in its descent. Peter gazed up at Sylar in complete surprise and Claire was struck speechless by this blasphemy, meanwhile Noah barked into the steam. “You shut your mouth!”

Sylar ignored this. He wouldn't even have been able to stop if he'd wanted to. No... This was _years_ in the making... Oh, if _only_ Miss Bennet knew the fire she was playing with...

*

“I'll bet since you single-handedly wrecked the world, you haven't even spared one thought to the guy who's repeatedly saved your ungrateful hide. Am I wrong...?”

Claire stuttered, an aghast sound. It buzzed like a herd of angry bees, this rage unlike anything else she had ever known, a special batch reserved for this one human being who only lowered himself further in her eyes each time she saw him.

She loathed the blade to Sylar's voice, the aggressive stance, the cold, scornful eyes... she shouldn't have been taken so off guard by this as she was, but in fact, only _now_ did Claire realise how strange it was to see this glimpse behind the usual cold smugness. She had rarely ever seen this man express raw emotion in her presence until now.

A combination of outrage, shock, despair and hatred whacked her in the face with pure numbness. She couldn't feel her body, or the tar-like air struggling to travel to her lungs. She couldn't think of what to say to prove his claims wrong, so angry she couldn't even word it! The only things that made sense right then were Peter, Sylar, and the gun hanging heavy in her hand...

*

“I said _don't_ speak to her!” Noah shouted, knuckles cramping around the trigger that could end this madness once and for all! He ought to do it! He was being _paid_ to do it! There was so much he wanted to wring from the guy's throat first, but if this bastard didn't course correct _now_ then Noah's choice would be made for him –

“Spare me your judgement, cheerleader. I know what I've done, I'm sorry for it, I can't change it, Peter knows this. At least I can accept my actions. _You_ , on the other hand...”

BANG!

Noah hadn't even noticed he'd fired a shot until the bullet came flying back towards him. Sylar flinched and the tiny pellet whizzed an inch past Noah's temple in the next beat, riding on a wave of telekinetic force. The same force that winded the agent, lifted him from the ground and sent him hurtling backwards through the air in an imitation of the explosion downstairs...

He was weightless for an infinite moment. Then the world was dropped upon him.

*

Thunder ricochetted around the chamber, louder than every sprung bolt so far. Peter jolted in fright, covering his head on instinct and preparing for scalding oil to come crashing down upon him...

But nothing did. The only sign that anything had changed was the look of pure regret plastered over Sylar's face, the _thump_ at Peter's back and the pained yowl in Noah Bennet's voice that followed.

Then, for only a second, there was nothing.

“I – I didn't mean to -”

“DAD?!”

“ _Sylar!_ ”

“Peter -”

BANG!

The second shot was even louder than the first. Breath catching, head spinning, Peter peeked about him at the damage while the dots slowly slotted into place for him to connect. The finished picture was a horrible display to behold. He couldn't possibly decide what was worse: Sylar, shields down, recoiling on the ground with blood running from his chest, or Claire towering before him with a smoking weapon in her hands... and her finger still on the trigger.

“Claire!” Peter's throat startled him with a cry. “Claire! NO!”

BANG! Another round went off, its echo spiralling away into the depths of the rig. Then another. And another. And another, until the roots of horror finally unwound themselves from Peter's bones and he threw himself between his niece and only friend.

Appalled, he gaped at the young woman who he'd never thought would have it in her. She looked possessed, transfigured, terrifyingly similar to the agent from Peter's night terrors, save for the emotion crumpling her face. He didn't want to believe it, but every one of his senses made reality impossible to deny.

“STOP!” He commanded, arms out open to either side. He couldn't ignore flashbacks to merely an hour or so earlier, when he had done almost exactly the same thing with Noah. Maybe the future could never truly be misdirected? Maybe there really was no escaping fate? But no! This was _different_! This was _Claire_! And Peter trusted her and loved her and could only go on faith that their freshly damaged bond was still strong enough for her to spare him. He couldn't imagine that she would shoot him... but ten seconds ago he couldn't imagine that she would shoot anyone. “Claire, please!”

The teenager's lips trembled so badly it was a wonder she could bark out even a single word. “ _Move!_ ”

“I'm not going anywhere.” Peter vowed, the air scarring his throat as if he'd swallowed razorblades. It was so hot, so heavy, like a physical weight he could carry in his arms. “Not until you put the gun down.” It was all too much – the rig – the ticking countdown... His heart was strumming up quite a percussion band in accordance with his ribs, but at least Sylar was squirming in the corners of his vision. He'd be okay soon, thank god. Without The Haitian's power blocking then Sylar would be fine as long as nobody got to him before he had time to recover.

Or as long as the rig didn't combust with them all trapped inside.

“Peter...!” Claire sobbed through gritted teeth. “He – he _deserves_ it! He took _everyone_ from me – Jackie! Meredith! Nathan! ... _You_...!”

If it was possible, the mosaic of Peter's heart fractured further. He shook his head earnestly, hair swinging. “No, but I'm right here!” He insisted, trying to stay calm, trying to stay strong when she needed him to be. “That doesn't have to change. Okay? Me and Sylar doesn't have to change anything.” Peter could tell he'd slipped up when Claire's bottom lip pouted further. Shit. As a desperate means to repent, he placed a hand over his bleeding heart and bore directly into tear-filled, green orbs. “Please, Claire. This isn't you. You're not a killer. I _promise_ I'll explain it all later... But we need to find a way out of here before it's too late, and we can work together. If you let us. ...Alright?”

Perhaps it was the effects of the other two contributors having been taken out the equation, but this time it _really_ felt like Peter had gotten through to her on a level so far untapped. He waited with baited breath, his eyes catching the shaking of Claire's hand and the fresh tears glimmering in her eyes. Suddenly she was fifteen years old again in Kirby Plaza, reluctant to shoot him, Peter, who was still her hero, and they were going to work together to save the world... It could be that way again. She was _so_ close to giving in...

“Don't listen to him, Claire Bear!”

*

Noah limped his way over, more determined than ever. He winced at the fresh knock to his head and already damaged body, but would never let a little thing like pain get in the way of helping his daughter.

The gunshots were still echoing around his ears, loud enough to have roused him. The instinctive (and counteractive, yes) fear that his little girl had been injured by the shots was more than enough incentive to kick his body into consciousness. It wasn't pleasant to see Claire midway through a stand off, but it seemed she'd handled herself brilliantly in his brief absence.

She glanced over her shoulder as he approached. “Dad! Are you okay?”

Noah regretted nodding his pounding head the moment he did it. “He's not your uncle anymore, Claire. He's a terrorist. Don't let him make you doubt yourself.” The middle aged man panted, stepping up to lift the burden from Claire's shoulders. She may have held up impressively well (if Sylar's bloody, fallen state meant anything) but Noah could tell he'd woken _just_ in time to stop Peter from winning her over.

The man in question seemed to fade in transparency at his near victory being rescinded. He opened his mouth, no doubt to try talking Noah round again, but the agent lifted a hand to stop him. “It won't make a difference, Peter. It's over.” Noah winced and spat blood to the grate beneath his boots. “You've lost. Come with _us –_ _your_ people, and I might be able to fix you a deal. But you have to let us take Sylar. Now. Or you give me no choice.”

The youngest Petrelli heaved in an unsteady breath, held it... then let it out, shaking his head. The sorrow in his expression was enough to warrant no words.

Noah didn't want to do it. He'd hoped against it through the entire exchange. But now there really was no other feasible option. Peter was clearly well beyond the point of no return, the clock was almost at zero and the sand was running thin, so Noah raised his weapon once again and aimed it over the fallen murderer's heart, this time with the intention of using it.

Claire inhaled sharply at his side but Noah shushed her, too intent on the bullseye before his narrowing vision.

“Don't!” Luckily Noah's reactions were dulled by his injuries, otherwise he would have squeezed the trigger at the wrong man. Peter appeared where he hadn't been a moment before, blocking the bullet's trajectory.

“I'm only going to say this once, Peter: move.”

“No.” The young man declared, defiantly holding his ground even as his voice threatened to waver. He glared down the barrel of Noah's gun and straight through his horn-rimmed glasses, sustaining eye contact without flinching. “No.” Peter repeated, lowering his voice and brow into a serious, harsh line...

*

Scalding air nipped at Sylar's wounds. It burned to feel such heat flowing past raw skin and through his blood. Vaguely he wondered if this was why his regeneration was taking longer to revive him than usual, because it had to heal the burns before the holes could close and it could never quite get there fast enough...

In a way it was a relief, aside from the heated ground biting into his back and hot claws further ripping his torn flesh into ribbons. To just... lie here, so simply... it was nice not to have to do or think about much. Caught between life and death while his body fought against the tide to save him, Sylar didn't even have to breathe much of the metallic-tasting air. It was almost like a time out. From what, though... he couldn't recall.

He _was_ aware of the pain. Just not where it had come from. Just as well his attacker didn't know where his kill spot was. Sylar wanted to smirk at his secret, the cleverest of all secrets ever made. No one else knew. Not even Peter.

Oh. Peter. Oh yeah, he was here too. Of course he was here, Peter was always here... Sylar suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be helping with something. Not what, though. He tried to focus his hearing, but either his ears were broken or it was too loud to make sense of much... loud. It was definitely the loudness. There was banging coming from nearby...

Ah, yes. Sylar remembered. He was supposed to help Peter with the wall for the millionth time, so they could save Emma and the carnival and blah blah blah and then they'd be free... Really (and this was another secret, one nobody else knew), Sylar didn't want to break the wall down. He didn't want to go back to that world and have to separate and be hated by other people again. It was better in here. Welcome.

Faintly, he heard a voice... definitely Peter's voice, he'd know it anywhere... but it didn't sound too happy. Oops. Sylar supposed he really _should_ help, after all. Peter _did_ deserve his input after everything else he'd put up with... and who's to say it would work anyway? The bricks had held fast for five years already, maybe they'd never fall...

It was with a little reluctance that he drew his efforts tightly around his body in an attempt to wake up. More pain flushed through him and his regeneration worked faster, swarming him with biting pins and needles stitching him back together. Sylar groaned at the sensation, then groaned again when he recognised his surroundings and everything came flooding back to him. The rig. The imposter. Noah and Claire... Peter. See? This was exactly why the dream city was better than real life...

The next wave of feeling wasn't physical. It was icy fear that doused over Sylar like a bucket of cold water. From down on his back the chamber looked even taller; the steam attacked his healing bullet wounds, two steps forward one step back; and the metal grate below him just about seared away his flesh where it touched.

Hissing in pain, Sylar blinked groggy eyes to behold the scene playing out without him. He still couldn't hear much, couldn't make sense of more than his own screaming ailments, Noah Bennet pointing a gun in his direction... and Peter Petrelli shielding him from harm's way. Again. Of course he was.

Adoration fought to flock to the surface, but panic won out in the end. Sure, Sylar might not have been able to interpret his current surroundings properly, but he sure as hell remembered Peter shot and bleeding as he fell through the sky after doing this exact same thing earlier today. Fucking idiot.

“P-Peter... don't! You can't heal...” He wheezed, lips numb and voice like gravel swirled in a glass. He caught Peter's acknowledgement, but still the little man didn't budge. So Sylar used the railing of the platform to haul himself to his feet, painfully leaving behind bits of his palms on every bar. He wasn't about to just _sit_ here and –

The world rocked with a monstrous groan and Sylar's legs gave way beneath him, kicking him back down to square one. He was recovering, yeah, but surely it wasn't bad enough to affect his entire perception of balance...? Which meant that rumble was the rig disintegrating further. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!

This time Sylar managed to pull himself onto his knees, his hearing phasing in and out for random clips of heated conversation. He probably should've been doing a better job at backing Peter up, he suddenly realised, when the guy's urgent voice reached him again.

“He's not the same person who did all those things, alright? I'm telling you! He only wants to _help_.”

Then another voice – Bennet's. “Why would he ever want to do that? What's in it for him?” An unpleasant sensation glooped through Sylar's veins and he couldn't _not_ defend himself.

“I'm different now – I've repented -” Sylar repeated angrily, sick to death (again) of having to plead his case to a sea of deaf spectators happy to watch him drown.

“Sylar -” Peter again. Fine. Sylar wasn't finished, but if Peter wanted to handle the talking then that was probably for the best. Instead, Sylar focused all his efforts on getting his wobbly legs to accommodate his weight while trying to preserve the flesh on his hands.

The showdown tuned in with more focus than ever, and Sylar braced himself and turned around to face it.

“I _did_ trust you! But you choose _him..._?!”

Claire was talking again – correction: whining. Her previous verbal attack was still smarting more than the shots she'd impaled in Sylar's chest. Speaking of... he closed his eyes and tensed his muscles, riding out the last dregs of steam induced cauterising before his gaping wounds _finally_ sealed shut.

Shaken but revitalised, Sylar cast his eyes around the setting with restored definition. Claire was still crying, Noah was still armed and Peter was still valiantly trying to guard him. At once that same desperation to protect his friend roared to life anew. Now that Sylar was alive and well again, he wasted no time in striding across the unsteady platform to pull Peter back and throw every gun in the vicinity clean over the railing because he wasn't just going to do nothing while Claire hated him and Noah didn't believe him and Peter was going to get hurt for him and their surroundings fell further to pieces with each passing second!

Or that was the plan, anyway.

*

The place was so unbearably hot, so loud, tumbling down around them all like a house of cards and choking Peter with mottled, claustrophobic fingers. Caught between staring down both the teenager and her adoptive father at once, swept up in the midst of it all, he didn't mean to let his guard down. He didn't mean to lose sight of the most dangerous assailant, even for just one second.

Without warning this time, Noah Bennet dodged around him and set off a series of ear-splitting, echoing shots.

“ _Noah!_ ” All at once Peter leapt at him, Claire flinched and Sylar yelled again, and then suddenly the air was knocked out of the empath's body. He felt himself crash to the ground, scattering broken pipes and scraps of machinery everywhere as a searing gash of pain erupted through his torso.

He cried out, a reverberating yell, and clutched at his side. The grate below was burning to touch and agony locked brakes into Peter's bones, stunning him. He looked up when he heard Sylar's gasp accompany three more gunshots. _No_... Peter watched in horrified silence, unable to make a coherent sound as the man he had just failed to protect twice toppled backwards over the railing and dropped to the next level far below. Metal rang out thickly as a body hit the grate.

“ _Dad_?! You – you just...! _Peter_!”

“I did what I had to, Claire Bear: both of these men are extremely dangerous and this place is about to blow! We don't have much time...”

Peter's senses clouded like the steam had infected his very core. He heard the heated exchange between father and daughter, then the loud ringing of two pairs of feet – one determined, one ushered along behind – as they hurried down the stairs to reach his fallen comrade. Then he was left crumpled on the ground. Wounded. Hurting. Alone.

Fuck! The pain... Cautiously, Peter felt for the site of his wound with shaking fingers. It was painful enough to shift his weight that Peter had guessed the damage even before stroking over the unbroken but protruding skin. A broken rib. Maybe two. Must've been from the fall. It was less than ideal, but at the very least it wasn't another bullet... and it didn't feel fatal.

White-hot pain continued to rip at him with every ragged breath, his vision was beginning to blur around the edges and he knew he was vulnerable and open and unable to protect himself in this state. But he also knew that he wasn't the endangered target. Clutching at the mesh grate below him with sticky, sweaty hands, Peter gasped for air that burned down his throat and heaved himself over to the edge of the platform with all the waning strength he possessed. Noah and Claire's footsteps faded as he grew further behind and ever closer to losing this fight.

No way... not after getting this far... this wasn't how it was supposed to end! It couldn't be! They were supposed to _fix_ things by coming back here – not make everything so much worse... Grunting and groaning at the venom that seared his every movement, Peter grit his teeth and slid his body through the gap at the bottom of the railing, free-falling the distance below to Sylar.

Hot clouds of gas and steam engulfed him as he fell, the ground came racing up to meet him and Peter only _just_ managed to catch himself at the last second with flight. He clumsily eased his landing as he reached the ground beside Sylar, scrambling to check the status of his friend. Blood flowed out of multiple holes on the other man's chest, his eyes were closed and he was sprawled out loosely, unconscious but still breathing. Barely.

Now all he needed to do was wake up before anyone got here! Which would have been a much simpler ask if Peter couldn't hear his friends – no, his assailants – approaching. His chest hurt from more than a broken rib and his eyes watered from more than just pain. That was _twice_ now! Twice in one day, over two different timelines, that Noah Bennet (someone Peter had at least regarded as an ally, if not extended family) had almost killed him on purpose! Of course it had hurt the first time, but twice was a lot harder to forgive.

Did his history with Noah now mean nothing to the man? Helping out with that kid Jeremy? The carnival compass? Saving Claire's life way back at the beginning, even...?! Everything they'd been though together – including covering up Nathan's death for fuck's sake! – suddenly didn't matter just because Noah didn't approve of the company Peter chose to keep...?

The footsteps grew in volume, louder than ever, and two rippling shadows bled through the fog, weapons drawn. “Peter! Don't do it! I'm warning you – I _will_ kill you!”

Blinking bleary eyes, Peter tried both not to collapse and to come up with an escape plan at the same time. He should have been prepared, or had _some_ sort of backup plan if saving the rig didn't work... but of course he didn't. Because Peter never did the smart thing – Sylar had that covered for both of them, but now _he_ was dying and Peter couldn't protect him with anything from his limited arsenal: a broken rib, a broken heart, a broken ability that only gifted him one power at a time...

Another _bang!_ shot out again, a pipe, a bullet or the entire rig itself, Peter couldn't be sure. All that mattered was that everything around him was going up in flames and he had to do _something_! So, desperate _,_ suffocating and fighting for much more than just his own life, he pressed a hand to Sylar's leaking chest, pulled out the first ability that rushed up to meet him and used it without thinking.

Fire.

A spark of Elle Bishop's electricity flew from Peter's fingers and ignited in the air with a blinding flash. Flames whirled through the space and grumbled at their iron restraints, swooping along the length of the chamber at an uncontrollable pace, free and furious and growing to fit their cage at long last.

Peter gasped, aghast at what he'd done. There was no taking it back and nothing he could do to stop it. The only choice was to get the hell away as soon as possible. He stared, eyes wide like saucers, at the effects of his destruction, until a nasty thought caught his attention and he paled.

“Noah! Claire!” Both calls were poor from lack of oxygen and a stabbed lung. It might have been footsteps continuing to flurry at the other side of the wall of fire, but Peter wouldn't be able to move on until he knew for sure. “ _Claire_?!”

“Peter!”

He tried to reply, but cried out at the razor sharp poker of his rib twisting in his side.

*

“...Peter?!” Claire shouted again, barely audible over the roaring flames that she hardly noticed anymore. She was terrified – terrified for the state of her uncle – her friend, her hero – until she suddenly remembered everything she'd just witnessed. It pained her as though it was the first time over again... but, even after everything... she still couldn't bear it if Peter was –

“There!” Noah pointed, shielding his face from the heat. Claire scanned the glimpses beyond the flames, her heart stuttering when she caught sight of Peter: alive, in one piece and minus any visible third degree burns. She couldn't decide if she was more furious or distraught, probably a mix between the two (and almost every other emotion known to man), but the only thing that mattered in that second was that he was okay...

….Only... that meant Sylar would be too... And that, however, was _not_ okay.

“I'll get them -” She announced, taking her first stride towards the deadly fire.

“No!” Noah dragged her back by the arm, bending so their faces were level. “No. I'm not letting you out of my sight! You hear me?”

“But they'll get away!”

“Let them! ...It won't be the first time.” Noah sighed, resigned to his fate. “It's too dangerous, Claire.”

“Dad, it's only fire...?” The ex-cheerleader scanned her father's soot-covered face, confused. He'd already _just_ seen her walk through flames and survive...

“It's not the fire I'm worried about.”

His hands tightened on her arms, pleading. Noah rarely pleaded. It reminded Claire painfully of being buried underground with him in a carnival trailer, when he'd begged her to hide once abilities were revealed to the world... a dying wish that she had later disregarded. Last time it had been the right thing to do, to not heed his request. Her worldwide fans would agree with that. If she wanted to, Claire knew that this time she could stay until the rig finally hit the bottom of the ocean. She could chase Peter and Sylar through a tunnel of pure fire if need be! She didn't want to leave the mission incomplete (her familial relationships even more so) and this didn't have to be the end of it... but Noah couldn't stay here any longer. The oxygen was drying up in the air – within minutes he would suffocate. And in that rare moment, her father was more important to Claire Bennet than her own desires.

Slowly, she nodded her head. “...Okay.” She caved. “Let's go.”

Grudgingly, both Bennets started back the way they'd come. Claire peeked over her shoulder to their retreating charges, set loose at just a few steps out of reach. Peter was back there. He was hurt. She didn't want to _leave_ him behind in this collapsing deathtrap after everything he'd ever done to save her... She didn't know how to feel. But she also didn't stop Noah from dragging her away.

*

Peter watched the duo leave with a conflicted mass weighing deep inside. At its simplest level: at least they would be safer away from this chamber.

If only he could say the same for himself and Sylar. The man's healing should've been about complete by now, so as long as they ran as fast as possible they still had a chance and could grab any stragglers they found along the way! Not that it was ever going to be easy, though.

Severely freaking out, hindered by his ribs and painful tears that kept brimming but never falling, Peter crawled over his friend's still form. “Sylar...” He husked, beyond the capability of shouting. The man didn't rouse at his name, or at being shaken by the shoulder. He only squirmed a little after Peter held and slapped his cheeks. “Sylar?”

Flames roared overhead and at every side, and the vast height of the chamber was now concealed by a thick, black umbrella of smoke. The heat was practically unbearable now, Peter's skin felt like it was either on fire or peeling away in such temperature. Knowing that he would never be able to drag an unconscious man out of here, he patted Sylar's face again desperately, watching the guy's eyelids flutter as he woke.

*

Hadn't he just been here five minutes ago? Sylar was sure this state felt far too familiar. He re-lived the regathering of his hearing, his touch, his sense of pain with a distinct sense of deja vu.

Cracking open one eye brought him face to face with Peter. Oh, hi. Sylar instinctively felt his lips twitch in greeting, like he was just waking up from a long nap. …But Peter didn't look too good. He was lit by a flickering golden light that highlighted his long hair and a nasty bruise tarnishing his face. Sylar hoped not, but he assumed it must've been his doing. It always was, right?

“Mmpf... S'ry...” He make an inarticulate sound. Re-learning a childish mistake, he struggled to lift his lead-like arm to prod the bruise, as if that would make it all better. Peter wasn't staying still long enough though, and Sylar wanted to became annoyed at him for that. But the young man looked panicked, something that held such irritation at bay.

Peter was touching him, Sylar suddenly noticed, his eyes shining and lips moving very fast. The words were beyond comprehension, but Sylar wanted to chase them, curiosity hooking onto the watchmaker and pulling him from the dark pit like a lifeline from the sea...

*

“Get up! C'mon, get up!” Peter repeated, his eyes flicking between Sylar's refocusing ones and the disappearing bullet holes in his chest.

He was healing, Peter was relieved to see. He just wasn't sure it was working fast enough. By now the chamber was a lightening mix of light and fire and blurry clouds that erupted into flame like fireworks up high.

“Wake up...! Please!” He urged, peeking again at the progress of the last wound. Almost there...

“Ouch.” Sylar moaned flatly. Peter's spirits soared and he returned to his friend's face, scared to smile just yet in case he was too soon. The watchmaker frowned his great brows and grimaced, coming to. “I'm sick...” Peter worried again instantly. “...So sick...”

“No, you're not! You're fine! You're all healed!” He promised, pushing sweaty hair off Sylar's face to let him see better.

“...Sick... of being shot...” Sylar puffed. “Next time... we take out the guns... Deal?”

Despite himself, Peter actually laughed. Then regretted it when his ribcage constricted and cut off his airflow. “D-deal.” Wincing, he tried his best to help the other man to his feet.

“Woah... What happened here?!” Sylar demanded, taking in the live fire for the first time.

*

Cringing, Peter led them through the closest door and into a further, dark tunnel. “It was an accident...” The pair both closed the door over behind them as far as it would go. It should hold... for about a minute. Maybe less. After only a second's hesitation, they took their first step deeper into the unknown.

“Wait -” Sylar grabbed for Peter's hand, the skin there scarlet and tender. Holy hell... he really was _obtuse_ sometimes. “You won't make it out unless you can heal, Peter!” Sylar scolded his friend and squeezed his fingers. He wouldn't take another step until he was sure... Of course Petrelli would suffer his pain rather than take the simple alternative!

Peter cried and winced at the friction against his raw skin, but Sylar didn't let go. He deliberately watched the other man concentrate, watched the golden light make way for untouched, healthy skin, the man's stance return to normal and the horrible bruise finally disappear from his face like it had never happened. There was no other sensation like knowing whatever transpired next, no matter how long or painful, they'd both at least make it out the other side alive. Be that in one piece or many.

This corridor was very similar to the ones they'd taken on the way in: it appeared empty, of both people and flames, but flickering orange light in the distance wasn't encouraging. The noise of the rig's descent was louder in this compressed space, and a gust of hot air slapped their faces from the far end. There was nothing else to do but go on. So they did.

“I don't know the way out!” Peter shouted over the whistling wind. He looked very small suddenly, more so than normal, and Sylar wished he could ease the pain twisting through him like a hurricane. True, he _could_ say “I bet everyone made it out” or “they'd want us to escape”... but it wouldn't fool anyone.

“Neither do I!” Sylar confessed. “We just have to keep going up!”

Shivering in the heat, running in the dark, coated in a glittering film of sweat, both men read the other's sorrow from his face. It wasn't really giving up. It wasn't throwing in the towel. There was nothing more they could do here, they'd reached maximum potential. It still felt like shit though, to admit this was the end by actively trying to escape.

Within thirty sprinted paces, the ground shifted under their feet. The walls shook with another echo of melting metal and the men froze. They listened as the sound rebounded into the distance like whale song in the depths of the ocean, ringing right through their very cores.

They waited, just listening, waiting, listening, blood throbbing in their heads and losing feeling from their legs. That last shake... it felt... wrong. Somehow just wrong. Sylar could sense it with the instincts of a natural born hunter.

“What is it?” Peter whispered, his voice shaking at the end.

Deep, dark eyes scoured the shadows up ahead. “...I don't -”

The corridor lurched with a spine chilling _screech!_ A sound like growing applause announced springs and bolts ripping from the walls towards the two men, and then a million snakes hissed from either side as black sprays of liquid, sticky and wet, consumed every free particle of air.

“RUN!”

*

Sylar yelled, and Peter tried to comply. He willed himself onwards but the sudden onslaught of noise and sensation knocked him dumb: a pipe split next to his face, drenching him in the dark, unknown substance before he even knew what was happening. Fuck, it burned! It stuck to his eyeballs and clogged up his nose and throat, but thankfully he didn't need to breathe to survive. Coughing and choking and wiping at his eyes in vain, Peter lost his voice, lost all sense of direction or even simple common sense.

Until a familiar hand gripped the front of his t-shirt. “I got you!” The hand dragged him away, leading him blind through the constant, shaking, swirling, slippery blackness of the never-ending tunnel. “Just stay close to me!”

He ran as fast as he could but Sylar was always faster on longer legs, somehow he either knew where he was going or was incredibly lucky not to lead them into any walls, but Peter didn't care enough to question it. He only trusted Sylar to guide him, this evolved creature built for survival the way he himself had never been, and ran for miles through what felt like cracking glass tubes that fell away from under him.

*

It was a game of cat and mouse without the mouse. It was a hunt, a test, and luckily Sylar excelled at all of the above. That's all this was: same structure, different variables. They were going to be fine, they were going to make it, it was all about strategy...

Sylar repeated this mantra to himself as he ran, dragging Peter along like a child who couldn't keep up. It wasn't very dignified but it was going to have to do – the poor guy could barely catch a break, but there was nowhere in here for him to stop and get a proper clean breath even if they'd had time to try.

Sylar led them left and right, this way and that, splashing through growing, muddy puddles and jumping over debris in any direction they could use to climb to a higher level. The staircases were difficult for Peter but he managed, to his credit, and the temperature only increased the higher up the tower they rose. It was impossible, an uphill battle, but if someone was destined to make it, it couldn't possibly have been anyone other than these two immortal men.

*

Peter couldn't recall ever being as terrified in his life. Not when waking without any memories or sense of self in a dark shipping container; not when finding himself packed off to be tested on by a fatal virus; not even when he'd first caught himself growing to like Sylar. Normally adrenaline would numb the fear about now, but he had failed his mission, broken his niece, was paralysed in every function but touch and unable to find his way out of a doomed vessel... it might have been the most vulnerable Peter had ever been.

It was beyond his control by this point anyway. But still he wouldn't stop fighting.

The two figures left trails in the smoke as they ran, smearing dust in their wake. They ducked and recoiled from falling debris that dropped like cannonballs of deadly iron heat. The world flashed red behind Peter's eyelids as he sprinted and hot claws sliced into his skin. Smoke smothered him more than once, clinging to the tar-like substance inside his throat and lungs like feathers to glue, but Claire's ability never once abandoned him, thank god. And neither did Sylar.

***

To Noah's relief, the pilot had already started up the helicopter by the time they got there.

He bundled Claire inside first before climbing in himself, to the displeasure of his many cuts and bruises. The rig was flaming and crumbling at his back, far beyond salvation now. Noah hesitated for a moment at the door, looking over the burning burial ground for his team and whoever else had lost their lives here today.

Maybe if he'd got here a few minutes sooner...?

Heaving a great sigh, Noah tugged himself into the body of the vessel and signalled the pilot to take off. The propellers whipped dully overhead even after Noah sealed the door, but they weren't quite enough to mask the sounds of destruction fading away below.

*

At long last, the thousandth door burst open onto an outside staircase. Sylar instinctively wanted to suck in a deep breath, but it was almost as smoky out here as it was inside. In fact, everywhere he looked he was met with smoke, fire and more smoke, rising into the sky like a great mushroom cloud that cast the darkest night over mid afternoon.

...It was so much worse than Sylar had been expecting. The damage was more extensive than he'd guessed it would be, and he didn't want to imagine how much of it had unfurled while they'd been wasting time trying not to hurt Daddy and Baby Bennet's feelings...

Swallowing away the thought, he guided Peter to the banister and the cleanest air he was likely to find in the vicinity.

*

At once Peter could taste the difference out in the open. It was the sweetest antidote he'd been craving, still masked with bitter smoke but a million times better. Peter coughed and retched and heaved in as much air as he could to at least access his lungs, with the added helping hand of regeneration. He wiped at his healing eyes with his t-shirt before casting his gaze out over the expanse of the rig.

And instantly wishing he couldn't see again.

They were definitely up high, but the oil rig loomed mightily above them, stretching out as far as the eye could see. Everything was black, yellow or red, no in between, no compromise. Fire digested the iron skeleton with no mercy, attacking every possible angle like a virus. The thing was enormous, even bigger than it had felt while stumbling around lost inside it, and the worst part about it was... it looked almost exactly as it had done the first time Peter had been here.

Had he even made a difference at all? Had he helped in _any_ way? Or had he just screwed everything up beyond repair, despite his best efforts, just like all his other failed attempts...?

He told himself he was only choking from recovering the use of his lungs, that his tear ducts were only helping clean his eyes. He had no excuse concerning his breaking heart.

“We can't stay here.” Sylar spoke as gently as he could amongst roaring flames. Peter squeezed the banister too tightly, burning his hands yet again in an attempt to channel his emotions. It didn't work.

He nodded and followed the taller man back to the winding staircase, where they both climbed as high as it would take them. Fumbling through the smoke was barely an improvement to Peter's previous condition: he still could hardly breathe or see a thing besides his brave companion, never more than two steps ahead. That alone, however, made all the difference in the world.

*

Finally the exhausted men tumbled out the top of the stairs, two tiny shadows against a ravenous backdrop of wildfire. Their path concluded on a large, open platform roughly three quarters the height of the rig's tallest spire, scattered with burning rubble and fallen debris raining from above. It was difficult to tell through the poor lighting and destruction, but Sylar was pretty sure this was as high as they could physically go.

Which meant it was a definitive dead end to this journey. A clean break with no further routes of procrastination.

Sylar staggered to the opposite end, overlooking the heart of the disaster like a king over his fallen kingdom. Was it strange that he actually _didn't_ want to leave this doomed site...? Was that the normal reaction a hero should experience after failing in his mission? Like a captain should go down with the ship, it felt like cheating to fuck everything up so badly and then be allowed to fly away, unscathed.

Sylar cast an anxious glance over his shoulder. And at once he could tell that Peter was feeling the exact same things inside. Probably worse, actually, due to his hero complex... It was the spine tingling idea that this time Peter might _actually_ go down with his ship unless he did something that snapped Sylar out of his heart and back into mind. Someone had to take control here.

*

“Peter...”

Sylar's voice was snatched and crumpled up by the fire like a ball of paper in angry hands. Peter knew the meaning behind the call. He just didn't want to answer it.

Crackling light danced in large, sorrowful eyes, drinking in the details so that his nightmares could only regurgitate them a hundred times worse. Huge chunks missing from the walls like bites from an apple, right to the bone, the core exposed to the cruel elements; oil seeping from the rig like a blanket over the ocean, leaking for miles all around; a giant tornado stirring blackness into the sky like poison in a cauldron...

“Peter!”

A shudder rolled right through the empath. Again, he brushed off Sylar's intentions. Breathing shakily through his mouth, he still couldn't tear his gaze away from the hideous sight before him. Smoke. Fire. Mess. Sky. Sea. Pretty soon the helicopters and boats would be rolling in, a steady stream of emergency services that would scour the remains of the rig for hours to come... Just like last time. Because Peter had failed them.

Lastly, his gaze pinpointed many, identical shapes on the water. Escape pods! Thank god... Peter's eyes welled up again at the sight, and he just hoped that Jimmy and his friends had made it out this time. He hoped that everyone had – but by the looks of things, not all the pods had made it this far. Not enough.

A hand on his shoulder rooted Peter back to his immediate surroundings. He hadn't heard Sylar approach, but turned to devour a hopeless expression that perfectly mirrored his own. Sylar squeezed his fingers slightly. “There's nothing more we can do.”

Peter didn't want to accept this, even though he knew it was true. It was as if his joints had rusted only to stop him acquiescing, but somehow he managed to communicate a nod of assent. Sylar let go and turned to face away, presenting his back for Peter to wrap his arms around from behind. The paramedic latched onto Sylar the way he'd used to do with Nathan, then felt the other man kick off from the platform and the telltale hook behind his navel that always accompanied flight.

Then there was nothing but clinging, hot air and suffocating, dark skies on all sides, and the remnants of their attempted rescue smouldering far below.

*

The plumes of smoke had barely settled in the men's wake before parting again, this time to emit a fleeing helicopter brandishing an abstract, red-hued “R” on its body.

Inside, it was almost easy to forget where they were. Claire watched nothing but smoke dance and curl against the reinforced window, a natural screensaver that was as soothing as it was hypnotizing. All she could hear now were the propellers churning away outside, Noah conversing in tech-speak with the pilot, and her own conscience chipping like clay. Aside from the smoky stench, this could have been a million miles from the rig and she wouldn't have been able to tell the difference.

It was what she'd always imagined leaving a rock concert would feel like: sweat cooling on your skin, adrenaline receding after a great burst of the stuff, physically and emotionally drained after the exertion, head fuzzy after jumping too close to the speakers, and looking back, unsure if it had really happened or had all just been a crazy dream. Claire wondered if she should be feeling more... well, _present_. Instead, she felt light, fluffy, as if she was standing too far away at the other side of a curtain.

She could barely believe what had transpired back there. Noah's ruthlessness, Sylar's arrogance, Peter's betrayal... it was going to take a long time to crash over her properly.

When her father reoccupied his expensively covered seat next to her, Claire spoke for the first time since leaving the rig.

“...You were right, Dad.” She sighed, her breathing functions now perfectly restored.

“About what?” Noah croaked then coughed, _his_ lungs still slightly more affected.

Claire blinked slowly, as if resting her eyes. If the helicopter wasn't shaking in its flight she probably would have been leaning her forehead against the window. Even if just to avoid looking at Noah's face when she told him.

“...This isn't for me. I can't do it.” She huffed again and shrugged loosely, dejectedly. “I guess I'm not cut out to be an agent after all...” If _this_ is what it meant to work for the world's leading tech company, and if she had to face such ugly choices and feel this way after every mission... then Claire didn't want any part in it. She didn't want anything to do with Renautas.

At the time it had been less of a priority than Peter and Sylar, but Claire _had_ been listening to Noah's justification of his actions. Of his new job. Which was exactly the same as his old one. The one he'd promised her he had no part in anymore. On a normal day she would have fallen out with him too, but the pain of Peter's treachery was still too raw to possibly burn another bridge right now. Today, she needed to know she _was_ loved, and that there was still at least _someone_ left who would do anything for her.

Losing Nathan, Gretchen and now Peter in such a short time made the world feel a hell of a lot colder than it used to be. Later, Claire intended to call Noah out on his lies for the millionth time. But for now, she needed him. Even if she didn't have to like him very much.

*

Noah wouldn't pretend that he wasn't grateful to hear Claire's decision, even though he did wish she didn't have to have gone through so much to find it. If every mission from here on out was to have even a fraction of this one's sadistic strain, Noah doubted his blood pressure would hold up more than one week in the field with Claire at his side.

Maybe that desk job could come in handy, after all...?

He reached across and stroked the back of her head without saying a word. Kissed her temple to no reciprocation, not that he was looking for any. Anger and bruises on his ego were crippling him after that disaster of a mission, but more important than securing Peter and Sylar's capture was securing his daughter's safety. They could wait.

Noah settled back into his seat with a pounding skull and quite possibly the beginning of severe sunburn, but at least he was alive. At least Claire was alive. Nobody could say the same for the should-be-occupiers of the empty seats lining the walls. After his medical check up and the mission debrief he'd return to the issue at hand – the world's two most dangerous evos running free. Maybe assemble a team to investigate their insane claims about the rig, just to be thorough. But not today. Not now.

Mr Bennet was seconds away from transitioning from seasoned field agent who could withstand two possible skull fractures within half an hour, to middle-aged dad who could fall asleep in six seconds flat, when a strange noise came from behind him. A noise that made Noah oh-so-subtly reach for his gun.

*

Claire jumped when Noah span and leaned over the back of his seat, weapon drawn. She startled in surprise at the exact same time as the stowaway trying to hide.

“...Hi...?”

The stranger smiled feebly, frightened but hopeful. His caught-in-the headlights look was enough cause for concern, but it wasn't until Claire recognised his dark coat and baseball cap that she actually connected the dots. This was the captive Sylar had let go. He wasn't a worker – he was a civilian... So what the hell was he doing here...?

Fresh indignation arose at once, but Noah had also realised this and beat her to the punch. She watched her father jab his gun further at the shaking man, who didn't even seem to consider putting up a fight of any kind.

“Don't hurt me!” He pleaded, hands up, still attempting to grin his way out of trouble.

Claire glanced between both men while the intruder's sentence was calculated and the agent's mind thumbed through this new, disconcerting information. She could practically hear Noah come to his decision when his lips curled up into a deliberate semi-circle: the same cold smile that never touched his eyes that she'd seen him use too many times before.

Even dusty and tired, Noah Bennet was still intimidating as he addressed the stowaway with a tone as smooth as silk. “Then you'd better tell me _exactly_ what you're doing here...”

***

Out here, water lapped quietly where the buoy broke the murky surface. It clinked and bobbed in the rise and swell of the ocean, no more than a peaceful onlooker to the distant trauma. The sun continued to struggle to filter through the smoky veil, even from this far away. It was almost peaceful, but fire and destruction echoed across the sea like sounds from the far end of a tunnel.

Once his feet hit the buoy, Peter held on for a second before disentangling his arms from Sylar. He didn't meet the man's prying eyes, not yet, and they both looked out silently at the sight before them. It could almost be a bonfire magically floating on the water, but Peter would swear he could hear screams and cries scratching after him.

There was way too much to think about at once. How many people had made it out? How many hadn't? What happened to Francis? _Why_ would Angela go to such extremes just to split him apart from Sylar? Would Claire ever speak to him again? Had any of his words made Noah begin to question things...? Even just a little...? Peter also couldn't stop thinking about Renautas, and what Noah had said about “damage control”. It was a nasty secret he hadn't wanted to uncover, but now that he had he couldn't possibly sit idly by and let people be rounded up like prisoners...! He just had no idea where to begin with the mess of it all.

His throat tightened when Sylar's fingers slipped around his wrist. A comfort. Understanding. Peter craved the contact, he craved more than just a sliver of relief, but he knew he didn't deserve it. He just couldn't bring himself to shake Sylar off.

*

Peter's pulse was hammering hard below his skin, a contrast to Sylar's sad heartbeat. So this was what it felt like to lose on other people's behalf. Unlike his friend, Sylar could appreciate that the outcome had certainly improved this go around, but his perfectionism made it impossible to be satisfied with less than 100% success.

It could have gone so much better. It could also have gone worse. Not much, but the potential was there all the same. What a disastrous attempt to be a hero. It insulted Sylar to realise that he'd failed. That he had possibly tainted the mission with his mere inclusion. Didn't the good guys always win? The heroes usually managed to save the day at the last second and dance off back to their little lives with a trophy for their mantle and a gold star for their conscience! That was how it went, right? ...Then why not this time? Was it _his_ fault...?

“It's all my fault.” The watchmaker was pulled deeply from his thoughts when Peter finally spoke. “You were right.” He said quietly, voice thick. “I just made everything worse by coming back here. I'm... I'm sorry I forced you to come along.”

Sylar looked down sadly upon his still sooty and oil-smeared companion. “You didn't force me to do anything, Peter.”

The smaller man shook his head, hiding his face. “We didn't even clear your name...”

This, Sylar wouldn't have. He cut off that line of thought at the source before it could infect the self destructive empath along with everything else. “We just saved those people. That's more important than my reputation.” With his free hand he gestured to the tiny specks of the escape pods in the distance. This was true. It _was_ more important – of course it was – but Sylar still wasn't exactly happy at what had gone down with Noah and Claire. It wouldn't be the first time he was left unsatisfied with them, though.

*

“Besides,” Sylar continued, the hint of a smile injecting into his voice. “It's not like I'm not used to being seen as the bad guy.”

Peter picked his gaze up from his ruined boots to see, true enough, one corner of Sylar's lips trying to lift. It wasn't enough to be believable. He didn't have to be so gracious – he should be allowed to kick and swear at the injustice of it all but no... there was Sylar showcasing the modest strength that nobody else believed he possessed. Peter wanted to accept the offered rationale, but it was so unfair he would scream if he were a less self-conscious man.

“But you saved them.” He husked, frowning. “And nobody even knows.”

“That's not true.” Sylar's hand was warm, his eyes even more so. “ _Some_ body knows.” This time he managed a grateful smile, one Peter returned to the best of his ability. He was touched by this sentiment, but it still wasn't as much as Sylar should be receiving. He should have just earned himself so much more than the recognition of one person who had already gifted it.

“I'm sorry.” Peter whispered, sorry that after all Sylar's effort to prove himself, it wasn't even going to make the slightest bit of difference. He shuffled closer to Sylar, who squeezed Peter's wrist in acceptance of his condolences.

“So am I.”

They turned back to look out upon the bleeding ocean once again, standing close enough to feel each other breathe. Joined at the hands, they said their silent goodbyes to the point where history had been overwritten. The buoy clinked and clanked as it swayed and velvety blackness crept ever closer on the tide. Peter _really_ wasn't looking forward to having to explain everything to Hiro so they could get back to the present...

What is it they say? Be careful what you wish for? The taunt floated around Peter's skull, mocking him. He _had_ wanted to kick start his life after weeks on hiatus, but now there was no going back to even a pretend “normal life”. No time to rest or change their minds. It was just as well both men had experience in this area.

“We can't go home.” Sylar sighed. They watched the words drift away over the water.

The first tendrils of oil stroked the base of the buoy and flames continued to claw higher and higher into the sky, illuminating the horizon. The deed was done, this was already turning into the aftermath. And the two time travellers had more than overstayed their welcome.

Peter's brows twitched as the thought sparked. “...I might know a place.”

***

A bell tinkled above the door. The sound travelled through low conversations, shuffling footsteps and voices from a nearby TV, all the way to a secluded table in the back corner of the restaurant.

Angela Petrelli didn't turn around. She daintily sipped from her tiny cup and lifted chopsticks to her lips, savouring the acquired taste of raw fish. She didn't need to look to know he was approaching, so instead she waited, hiding her impatience when the same news broadcast repeated for the third time in twenty minutes.

“... _yesterday afternoon._ _Some witnesses say the evos were terrorists, while others claim they saved dozens of lives. Officials are still to confirm the source of the explosion, with most opinions leaning towards an evo rights group. The unidentified duo have yet to be apprehended_...”

Mrs Petrelli poured herself a fresh drink, pinkie raised.

“You're losing your touch, Angela.”

She didn't look up until Noah Bennet was sitting opposite her at the table. “It was supposed to be discreet.” Thinking of the worthless “freelancer” she'd hired for the job, she smoothly added “I won't make the same mistake again.” And took another sip of tea.

The man looked a state: peppered in bruises and cuts and very noticeably wearing his backup pair of glasses. He was _not_ amused. “You set me up.” He said darkly, his jaw jutting defensively. “I almost _died_ yesterday. I only wish I could be as optimistic about my team.”

“An unforeseen complication. If you had done as I asked and waited until afterwards to confront Sylar, you would have been unharmed.” Angela poured some tea into a second cup for Noah, perhaps as an acting apology, but he didn't touch it.

*

He had to hand it to her. Not many women could have masterminded the world's latest crisis then sit here so unfazed in a bright, airy restaurant surrounded by oriental decorations and bamboo sticks like nothing had happened. She made cold-hearted look effortless.

“Did you hear they're in talks of re-writing the Registration Act? Making it compulsory? That will be months of my work wasted, not to mention how many million people with you to thank for it.” Noah said it casually, as if this wasn't history in the making.

He might have been wrong, but for a second he thought Mrs Petrelli looked conflicted at this news. Either that, or she choked on a piece of sushi. “I didn't ask you here for small talk.” She changed the subject, delicately fishing around the food tray with her chopsticks.

“No...” Noah concurred, giving in and stretching for his tea. “You asked me here to tell me why you framed Sylar.” He took a sip. Revolting. He peered at her over his glasses. “...Am I right?”

The Kojin Sushi staff worked quietly in the open kitchen and around the floor, nobody paid any notice to the older man and woman innocently sharing lunch in the corner. Nobody knew that the current news broadcast was her fault, or that he was a survivor of it. Nobody knew that Noah had been awake all night since interrogating Francis Culp, that he hadn't slept a wink for tossing and turning, unable to shake his exchange with Peter and Sylar from his conscience.

“Why did you hire Culp to play dress up and kill hundreds of people? What could possibly make you go to such lengths? And don't tell me you did it just because you don't approve of Peter's new BFF.” It was difficult to appear impartial, but Noah was well trained in the art.

He ground his teeth while Angela played for time, finishing her current mouthful and washing it down with tea before refilling her cup yet again. Finally, she inhaled a deep breath and met Noah's eyes with those piercing orbs of hers.

“Yes. I lied. I hate to say it, but Sylar is innocent. Of _that_ crime, anyway.”

“That would have been good to know yesterday...” Noah grumbled. Leaning forward on his elbows, he waited for any scrap of information that could appease him. “Then why was he there?”

“He wasn't supposed to be.” Angela's lips thinned. “That wasn't part of my plan, but something changed along the way. I can't tell you what, but I _can_ assure you than he wasn't responsible for this... awful tragedy.” She downed another mouthful of tea.

*

Noah's eyes narrowed in question behind his new glasses. Angela licked her lips, bracing herself to break her silence in the most composed manner possible.

“You're right. I wanted to get Sylar away from my son. But it comes down to so much more than Peter's obsession with Nathan's killer.” That was another story for another time. The rage, the heartbreak, the hopelessness to do anything about it because unfortunately Angela was cursed with the insight to know Peter and Sylar's unprecedented bond was genuine.

“I'm listening.”

Even now, weeks later, the memories ran chills down Angela's spine. “...I had a vision about them. One of my dreams.” She recalled the sickly images that her words rebirthed, too horrible to explain in full. “Earth destroyed, children burning, oceans wiping out cities...” Unable to suppress it any longer she shivered, hoping Noah wouldn't notice. “Everything, every _one_...gone.” Her eyes slid closed. “...Dead. Except for them.”

The sounds from all sides were of a quaint little restaurant, the scents of tea and fish. But the pictures that Angela couldn't un-see were all of her precious baby boy and Nathan's murderer: arms stretched up to beckon raining fire; standing invincible throughout heat waves that crisped the ground around them; summoning water to drown a thousand lives...

Noah cleared his throat and Angela opened her eyes to a serious frown. “Are you saying they'll make this happen? That doesn't sound like any ability I've encountered.”

“It's not like any you've encountered.” Angela sighed and sat up straighter in her chair. “As a pair, they are unlimited don't you see? They will be far too powerful, far too unstoppable if we let them be together: Sylar's intuition, Peter's empathy, they could share every ability on Earth if they wanted. They're not aware of it yet, of course, but the need for power is all consuming. You've seen it... one wrong thought is all it takes. Nobody will be able to challenge them. Nobody will be able to stop them.” She faded off, pressing her fingers to her eyelids light enough not to disturb her eyeshadow. This weakness was displayed only for a second. “...It's the way the world ends, Noah.”

*

Noah's face remained frozen as the seconds ticked on. An outsider might think he had gone blank inside, but really his mind was spinning a mile a minute. If this was true... if she was right... then this hunt had suddenly become _so_ much bigger than a personal rivalry between enemies.

“So the rig...?” He drawled slowly, the words breaking over him as the thoughts did. “You wanted to poison the well...?”

Angela nodded as if Noah had taken forever to get to this point. She knocked back her tea again but this time the pot was empty when she reached for another refill. So instead she busied herself with the strips of fish neatly presented on the wooden board in front of her. “I knew Peter would never listen to reason. Lord knows I love that boy but you know what he's like: any whiff of a charity case and he loses his mind...” She shook her head at the ludicrousness of it. Her tongue curled around the end of her chopsticks and she chewed very quickly, almost manically.

That was quite the understatement. Once again Noah relived the young man's face and pleas, his stance between a gun and Sylar, that insane loyalty... It hurt to realise that their claimed innocence had been true the whole time.

“No...” Angela swallowed and picked at her food, looking past Noah at something very far away. “No, I knew that doubt from within was much more likely to do the job than telling a Petrelli he can't have what he's set his heart on.” She sniffed, an inappropriate glint of pride hiding on her face. Then she shrugged, waving her chopsticks in the air as an afterthought. “Of course the deaths were unfortunate, but what are a few hundred compared to seven billion?”

Noah had always been an objective man, morally grey and able to see around angles that most people would be repulsed by. It was a skill, sometimes maybe a gift, but it was always advantageous to some degree.

“Why are you telling me this? What do you want me to do with it?”

“What do you think?” Angela huffed, surveying him dubiously. “I need you to help me separate Sylar from Peter before it's too late, by force if necessary. You get an end to this... competition... you have with Sylar and I get my son back. I think that's pretty fair, don't you?”

The fact that she was genuine about messing with people's personal lives being “fair” was what reminded Noah of the good ol' days of their partnership. Angela Petrelli was always ruthless, without a doubt, but she was almost always on the winning side. Even if that side was obscured with the pain and blood of many past victims. They often were on the same page, Noah and Angela. So far this hadn't been much of a bad thing.

“Now that they're onto us it'll be impossible to divide them internally.” The agent thought aloud, again thrown back to yesterday's confrontation. “They're going to be a lot harder to get between, a _lot_ harder to catch.”

“Precisely. And that's why I need you leading a team we can trust.” Angela heaved a large, black crocodile bag onto her lap. “I've already spoken to Erica. This will be your top priority.”

A file was retrieved from the depths of the bag and slid across the table by immaculate talons.

Noah wasn't too sure he liked having his job rearranged without his knowledge, but he lifted the file anyway. One of the old Primatech ones, he was pleasantly surprised to notice. “And this is?”

“Reinforcement. An old friend.”

*

“We have a lot of those, don't we?” Noah raised an eyebrow at her before opening the file to the front page. Angela calmly watched the questions chase each other across his bruised face, enjoying seeing the pieces of her plan click into place.

“Tempting. But he won't do it.” Noah sighed. Angela hooked the last of her sushi from the tray and chewed slowly. “I already tried to recruit him for the changeover. His power is invaluable but he wants out the game.”

Shaking his head, Noah held the file back out for Angela. It was ignored by the glamorous woman, who just tipped her head to the side and sent him the sweetest of smiles.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sooo sorry for the wait! If you made it this far, I can't thank you enough for your patience over the past few weeks. I also can't express how happy I am to be able to FINALLY update this story! :D I really am sorry for the wait between updates (I promise, it's not annoying anyone more than me!), but hopefully this monster of a chapter will make up for it a bit X)
> 
> This one was a battle to write (30 pages!!!!), there were so many issues that needed airing and planting and resolving all at once, and I just hope I didn't miss anything out hehe. I also hope you haven't forgotten what happened last chapter because it took me so long to get this one ready XP
> 
> The good news is – as summer is now approaching, I should have more time to write and update over the next few weeks ^.^
> 
> P.S. ---- Thank you Yajanele for the beautiful fan art for this story! Please go and check it out over on Deviantart: http://yajanele.deviantart.com/art/Tongues-of-Fire-understanding-669416936


	12. Simpler Times, Right?

Weeks. It had been _weeks_ now, and _this_ was all they had to show for it? It was embarrassing! It was pathetic...! It was better than nothing, really.

Noah Bennet stood alone in the underground room with only his thoughts and pitiful prizes for company. The walls and door were reinforced of course, but it would take more than that to shut out the sounds of a multi-million dollar corporation functioning at all sides. Cool air clung to him, not so cold that he could see his breath, but just enough to ensure that prized pencil wouldn't fade from paper.

The collage of drawings before him was as pristine as it had been upon retrieval from both Peter and Sylar's now vacant apartments, but had yet proven to be much worth the effort involved in the raid. Noah scowled over the many depictions of the future pinned across the full length of the wall, split two thirds to one: the right side incomprehensible faces and places and scribbles; the left scenarios that now made perfect sense. But only too late. Only _afterwards._

What good was this foresight if he could never utilize it with enough time to make any difference?! Sure, sometimes the heads up was useful, and more than once had granted him and his new team the element of surprise, but that was only _sometimes._ It wasn't enough. The agent's eyes absorbed the illustrations of his many recent failures, of all the times he'd arrived only to miss the party or catch a fleeting glimpse of two identifiable men evading capture for the hundredth time. The bank; the park; the theatre; the rig (always a sore spot); the up the country; down the country; all over the place – it didn't matter how hard he tried, he could _never_ catch them. Peter and Sylar, now Renautas' top fugitives, were _always_ one step ahead, goddammit!

Noah sighed and ripped the latest page off the “future” pile, the smaller of the two, and added it to the “past” collection. The memory was still stinging in his mind vividly enough to recognise it here, foretold in black and white: himself from behind watching two men fly up into the sky, their shrinking forms captured through the lens of Noah's glasses.

There were already so many failed attempts at catching the duo... the sensation reminded Mr Bennet of a previous mission of similar intent. He remembered a broken young artist and dozens of paintings of Claire and her highschool Homecoming. He remembered Isaac Mendez struggling to help, the feeling of worthless desperation as the countdown commenced towards what might have been the end of his daughter's life at the hands of an unstoppable man with unquestionable power... Chasing the future with insufficient means was hardly an agreeable way to command an investigation. Noah hadn't forgotten that in the end it had only been luck that had derailed Sylar's plan back in Odessa and spared Claire's life. Well, luck and a brave young man named Peter Petrelli.

Backing away from the wall to take it in all at once, Noah sighed again. The guilt over his last interaction with Peter had faded a little over time, but it never sat comfortably enough to ignore. Noah knew _he_ had only been trying to do the right thing in bringing in two dangerous fugitives, but he also now knew that Peter had thought he'd been doing the right thing too. Just as he always did, just as he always had done. It shouldn't have been such a surprise to discover that his motivation wasn't mind control or manipulation to end lives, but honest, truthful goodness to preserve them. But as for Sylar's involvement... well. There was certainly _something_ going on there with his morality, even if it was too unsettling to dwell on for long.

There were more important things to think of anyway! For example: Noah still didn't know how Peter and Sylar managed to appear everywhere they shouldn't be, like they had at the oil rig. How they _knew_ classified information and details that only a restricted number of agents were privy to. Painting the future could only show so much... Of course Mr Bennet couldn't rule anything out, not with a lifetime behind him of dealing with superhuman abilities and their untapped potential, but deep down each new, unexplainable situation only served to increase the weight of Angela's warning in his gut.

When would these vigilante stunts become something... more? What if the men were causing these disasters just to look like heroes? How would Noah know when things took a turn for the worse...? The scary thing was, even if they currently _were_ trying to use their powers for good; Peter and Sylar were much stronger together than they were apart.

It was going to hurt when Renautas eventually caught them... _if_ they caught them... before the most powerful known evos could do something truly catastrophic. Noah hadn't had the chance to speak to either man face to face since the nasty incident at the oil rig, to clear the air a little. Or even, _maybe,_ apologise. But what could he say anyway?! _'Sorry I almost killed you both and blamed you for blowing up the rig. I was wrong, I know that now. But it doesn't make a difference, I'm still taking you in and dragging you apart before you destroy the world. Now please come quietly and make my life simple...'_

Simple. Right. That would be the day. If Noah's life was simple he wouldn't have to be juggling the fallout of Angela Petrelli's botched plan, trying to appease the rising tension between civilians and evos _and_ be holding onto Claire no better than he had after she'd jumped from that Ferris Wheel and ignored him for weeks on end...

The world's advocate for evos certainly wasn't impressed by the influx of hate and fear concerning her subjects. Or by Noah failing to quash it. Damn it, Angela... she'd said if things had gone according to her plan, evos would never have been associated with the “technical failure” at the oil rig. But here was Noah, all this time later, struggling to even _begin_ to clean up the mess of her oversight! He couldn't stop fear of evos from infiltrating the world, couldn't catch his priority targets, couldn't sleep due to the rise of his coffee intake and he couldn't even get his daughter to tolerate him anymore! It's fair to say that Noah Bennet was definitely in need of a miracle. Or a secret weapon. Or a luxury vacation.

The middle-aged man was snapped out of his troubled reverie by the mechanical _ba-bleep_ of the door unlocking from the outside. He fixed his expression before turning his back on the wall of drawings that he was sick to death of by now.

The door slid open and a watery, bald man poked his head inside. “Bennet?”

“Stevens.” Noah greeted with a tired smile. It was actually nice to be joined by someone other than the taunting ghosts of his two captives, even though Noah knew he _should_ be using time alone to problem solve.

“I think we got one.” His subordinate crossed the room with an advanced, glowing tablet in his hands – a Renautas staple. Noah set-in-his-ways Bennet still didn't much like using them, but if he was caught with his preferred, ratty pieces of paper and stickers in _this_ place he'd likely get demoted. Agent Stevens looked briefly over the wall of stories while Noah busied himself with the profile glaring at him from the tablet screen, expecting nothing more than another dead end. But he was wrong.

Name, ability, credentials – all irrelevant. Because Noah knew that face, even though he'd never met the man before.

Dark skin, strong build, not afraid to get his hands dirty to get the job done... This person was one Noah had seen a dozen or more times but never in the flesh. Never as anything more than a character drawn by two prophetic artists.

“Good work, Stevens...”

As the cogs began to whir inside his head, he didn't even need to look back at the wall to confirm the man's identity. He was the missing piece... the secret weapon... a slice of the future that could potentially, _finally,_ tip the scale in Noah's favour.

He smiled again at Agent Stevens, this time hiding delight behind a calm facade.

“...Bring him in.”

***

The late Spring sun smiled upon Central Park West, a golden evening sheen that flattered everything it touched. Tall buildings looked even grander in the light, the sidewalks cleaner, the road friendlier in a peaceful descent to another extraordinary day in this extraordinary world.

There weren't many pedestrians about: a few wandering down the block, some floating through the skies, an older black man ambling his way across the street carrying a take-out bag in his arms... He was alone, but apparently happy to be so. He paid no attention to the people flying overhead, just calmly crossed the road to the large glass doors of an apartment building where he was jostled by a passing speedster. The man stumbled but only reaffirmed his grip on his cargo, smiling gently at such a sight being caught out in the open on such a gorgeous hour as this.

Inside, catching the way the sun glinted off polished white marble, the man reminded himself once again how lucky he was to live here. Sometimes it's the little things that make life great. He returned a smile from the doorwoman who hurried to hold the door open for him. “Beautiful evening, Mr Devaux.”

“That it is, Peggy.”

Mr Devaux's shoes tapped cheerily against the marble floor on his way to the elevator, which opened for him immediately. The climb to the top of the building was slow but pleasant, merely a chance for him to stop and appreciate the smell of his dinner wafting out the bag in his arms and the heat of it warming his chest. He hadn't been able to hide a secret smile for almost a good half hour now. He really was incredibly lucky to be here.

It was only when the elevator closed behind him and he was almost to the door of the apartment that Sylar shape-shifted out of the form of “Charles' brother” and back into himself. His smile carried over the transition, refusing to fade even when he struggled with the key while trying not to drop his dinner. It only grew larger when he shouldered his way inside the most luxurious place he'd ever been so lucky to call his own. Or, well, _half_ his own.

“Honey, I'm home...” He chuckled, ensuring to close and lock the door securely behind him. After kicking his shoes off he padded through the rich, airy penthouse in his socks; the polished mahogany interior shining in the fading tips of sunlight. It was still as awe-inspiring as the first time he'd crossed the threshold, starry-eyed and disbelieving.

“Guess what?” He continued. “I was walking behind a group of people... and I happened to overhear them talking about our little stunt last week in Chicago.” That closed-lipped smile broke across his face freely for the first time since eavesdropping on the unsuspecting group of New Yorkers. “They used the word “heroes”...” He raised an eyebrow modestly, delightedly, still grinning. Just the memory of it was still spreading warmth through Sylar's veins, adding a spring to his step as he practically danced into the front room. “Makes a nice change. And who am I to correct them if they -”

He cut off. The smile all but disappeared from his face as he processed the sight of an art studio where the living room used to be. The rug had been rolled back, the silk couch with its fine upholstery pushed against the walls, crisp white curtains were now flecked with paint, and every other surface was littered with paper, brushes, and the entire damn spectrum of coloured gloop. What was an immaculate space a few hours ago now looked almost like a bomb site... if said bomb had been a giant paintball.

“Peter!” Sylar snapped, annoyed, his eyes landing on his roommate's multi-coloured, guilty expression. “You said you wouldn't!”

“I know, and I'm sorry.” Wiping his paint-splattered hair out of his paint-splattered face, Peter Petrelli stood from scrutinizing his latest prophetic painting. “But he keeps showing up everywhere...”

“That's because you keep _painting_ him everywhere.”

Sylar didn't even bother looking at the subject of Peter's art. He was already sick of the guy's face – the same one Peter had been predicting continuously for over a week now. That was it, just a man, nothing more: no useful information, no hints of a location or scenario or in fact anything at all that could merit his appearance other than the fact that he kept inviting himself onto the canvas time and time again. What else was there to know? A man: dark skin, strong build, looked pretty nasty to come up against in a fight, but that wasn't news. Peter was almost obsessed with the guy, meanwhile Sylar would bet he'd recognise him a mile away by now.

“How do you always manage to make such a mess?” He eyed the coloured footprints drying on the floorboards, the same colours that conveniently happened to be dirtying Peter's bare feet.

“It's a gift.”

Sylar rolled his eyes as he made his way across the open-plan space to the kitchen area. He dumped the Chinese food on the marble top breakfast bar, thanking God that Hurricane Petrelli hadn't hit this part of the room yet – he'd just cleaned in here!

Lured by the fragrant scents of dinner no doubt, Peter appeared at the opposite side of the island while Sylar set out the boxes and chopsticks. The watchmaker's happiness had just taken a hit to the gonads alright, but the prospect of food and companionship was enough to save it from fading entirely. Sylar wanted to snarl at his former friend for getting paint on the clean surfaces, but Peter was exuding cheerfulness like a light from his skin and Sylar still wasn't used to that novelty. He couldn't stay mad for longer than a few seconds.

In the temporary break between Matt's dreamworld and moving in together, he had actually almost forgotten how hopeless Peter was to co-exist with. He never cleaned up, cooked horrifically coming from an Italian family, and generated an obscene amount of mess whenever Sylar turned his back for even two seconds. Thankfully the pleasure of his company was usually enough to compensate for all that.

The man in question leaned his painted elbows on the counter and twirled noodles onto his chopsticks, tearing his gaze from the other room. “I think it's gonna happen soon, but... I still don't know what it is.” He shovelled a tangle of steaming food into his mouth.

“It's called a _vacuum cleaner,_ Peter. It's what grown ups use for this thing called _tidying_...”

Peter laughed around his mouthful before tucking in heartily to his meal. More of Sylar's good mood trickled back to him. They leaned over the counter together and ate their meals in company with the news channel on TV and the crackling of the police scanner nearby. There didn't seem to be any stations currently running a story on the two mysterious evos who kept cropping up all over the country, or any recent trauma worrying enough to distract said evos from a well-deserved wind down. So for now, the devices were just background noise. Awake, alert, as ever.

Sylar scooped up some egg fried rice from his carton – delicious – while subtly looking over the smaller man from up close. Peter seemed totally engrossed in his dinner: his expression pleasantly relaxed while unaware of the scrutiny, bare feet tapping to no music as he worked away happily at getting as much sweet and sour sauce on himself as was humanly possible. Sylar just barely managed to conceal a fond smile behind the motion of chewing.

Peter hadn't been this at peace in months. Not since before they broke free from their shared mind prison, to be precise, and Sylar had missed that. It was the helping people thing, he knew: running around the country averting disasters and saving lives like something out of 9th Wonders was not only taking a positive effect on the recovering villain, no. Hero duty was the world's best high, no doubt about it... only, no matter how strong the hit, the adrenaline still wasn't enough to numb _all_ wounds. Especially recent ones.

As much as he relished it, Sylar knew Peter's positive attitude wasn't entirely genuine. Although it _did_ seem to be taking more of a rooted effect as time passed, it was partly a deliberate attempt to convince them both that everything was fine inside him. Since the rig, the guy had barely mentioned his estranged mother or the broken relationship with his niece that they both _knew_ was eating away at him, or even the crew members they hadn't been able to rescue. Sylar hadn't forgotten what they'd been through that day – far from it – which meant there was no way in hell that Peter had for even one second. Miss Bennet popping up on every newspaper or talk show for her ongoing press tour wasn't exactly helping things in that area, but Peter had taken to shutting off the TV now when she came on. Sylar chose to see this as an improvement.

The first week and a half after their last encounter with that girl had been... very different to now. Sylar hadn't been that amount of worried for Peter's mental state since the early days in their dream prison. The sensitive man had been broken, really and truly, by the events of that afternoon out at sea. He blamed himself, as Peter Petrelli was born to do, and on top of suffering the thousandth betrayal of his mother, was the closest thing to depressed as he had been for years.

Then, one day, everything was different. They rescued an older woman from a mugger and, like a switch being flipped, Peter was _himself_ again: smiling, touchy-feely, affectionate Peter Petrelli with a seductive, secret sense of humour tucked away inside for special occasions – not to mention a penchant for ignoring any rule that got in the way of justice (such as no painting on the good furniture). The transformation had been too sudden to be authentic, but Sylar was far too grateful for the attempt to call Peter out on it at the time. Or later. Or even now.

Sure, he knew they ought to air these issues rather than let the empath keep it all inside: pretending there wasn't a problem was _not_ the best way to handle such a traumatic ordeal as his whole life splitting at the seams... but Sylar had no clue how to go about doing that. He couldn't bring himself to drag the dark thoughts to the surface just when Peter _might_ have actually been moving on. And, honestly, he just liked to see his friend smile again. Too much to ruin it.

*

Peter tried to push away the uncomfortable feeling about the most recent muse of his paintings and just savoured the sweet and sour chicken and his friend's proximity. The food really was very tasty, hot and mouth-watering and just what he needed after an afternoon of trance-induced painting on an empty stomach.

It was rare nowadays to have a moment of downtime such as this. When someone had just been saved and there was a path blocked out ahead but still time to regroup and just simply enjoy the space between missions together. Renautas' latest foiled attempt to capture an unsuspecting victim (this time a homeless pyrokinetic kid) was sitting snugly inside Peter's chest, feeding him sweet, sweet purpose like nutrients to a baby. Yes, it had been exhausting and stressful at the time, but knowing they'd spared the kid from an indefinite prison sentence was more than worth it. Even another narrow escape from Noah Bennet and his team hadn't done much to tarnish the satisfaction of yesterday's success.

He looked around the beautiful rooms of the apartment through the lens of contentment. He'd always liked it here. It reminded him of beautiful Simone Devaux for more than the awful way she'd died – instead, of the time he'd fallen in love with her. It reminded Peter of Simone's father Charles, the man's kind eyes and unwavering faith when nobody else had believed in him. It reminded him of a time when he'd been sure that only good things happened in the world, and that he was going to get out there and start making a difference. It was... nice, to be close to the point where those feelings had began. To remember why he'd started all this in the first place.

Not to mention the penthouse was the best hideout they ever could have asked for. It was perfectly sized – not too big, not too small – homey and warm, familiar, a safe haven ready to help when he'd needed it most... just like its previous occupant. The lingering sense of Charles Devaux, a friend, a trusting figure who Peter had loved more than his own father, comforted him. He didn't much like the dishonesty of their living arrangements, but Peter was sure that Charles wouldn't have minded he and Sylar pretending to be his brother staying in the otherwise vacant apartment. The Company wasn't using it, Simone couldn't exactly accept her inheritance, and as far as Peter knew, Ernest Devaux still lived in England and wasn't planning on moving in anytime soon. It was almost meant to be.

Sometimes he wondered if Charles had anything to do with the building keeping them hidden so spectacularly. As a patient, Peter had used to admire the man's... ability... to always seem to know more than he let on. Even _after_ his death things just... worked, around Charles. He left a positive imprint in every part of his life, like he had within his young hospice nurse who'd needed some choice words of wisdom before growing into the man he was today. And actually, Peter liked to think that the pleasant vibes within these walls were Charles approving of his and Sylar's plight. It would be just like him. And it might have been the main reason Peter loved to call this place home.

“So...” He started shyly, feeling a flush warm his cheeks as he caught Sylar's eye. “They called us heroes?”

“No. They called _me_ a hero. _You_ were the sidekick.”

“Oh.” Peter's face fell. “Maybe I should try different coloured tights?”

“Go with green. They'll bring out your eyes.” Sylar smirked and poked around his take-out box for another helping.

Peter snickered and popped a chunk of chicken between his lips before speaking with his mouth full.

*

“Hiro's getting sick of me calling.”

Sylar watched with amusement as the other man struggled to even so much as feed himself without making a mess. He chewed neatly enough, but chased a noodle four times around the box with his chopsticks before securing it, along with splatting a hefty drip of red sauce on the sparkling counter top. Sylar forced himself to ignore it.

“That's noble of him. The man with all the time in the world can't spare a few seconds now and then to lend you his ability?”

“He didn't say it but I can tell.” Peter insisted, jabbing his chopsticks across the counter.

“I bet you're over-thinking it.”

“He told me my mother's been trying to contact him.”

This temporarily derailed the rest of Sylar's assurance. Oh. Angela snooping around wasn't too encouraging, even if they were lucky it had taken her this long to catch onto their method of working from hindsight. The nasty reminder of the woman who currently headed the “silent treatment” list was not very welcome for either man.

“I wouldn't worry too much about that.” Sylar said, catching the badly hidden tendrils of dismay leaking into Peter's expression. “You know how honourable and desperate Hiro is to 'save the world'. I doubt he'd rat us out.” Sylar chuckled for Peter's benefit and finished his mouthful, slightly comforted by this knowledge even if the little man didn't seem to share in that.

Sylar was still enjoying this newfound camaraderie with the time traveller. Funny, since his favourable words of advice back in that alley, Hiro had suddenly become endearing and not the annoying little speck of a man he'd been since delivering a bleak, terrifying glimpse into Sylar's demise once upon a time in Texas. Currently his and Peter's new cell phones held only each other's numbers, the best take-outs' in the event of an emergency or a lazy day, and Hiro's. It was a weird circumstance to have him included within this tight-knit circle of trust. Who would ever have thought it would be a comfort to have Hiro Nakamura as one of very few accomplices, morals and all? Not Sylar anyway.

Speaking of morals...

Partly to change the subject, partly to stop putting off the deed, Sylar pushed himself to his feet and headed back through to the impromptu gallery. “Remind me someday to train you how to eat, Peter.” He scoffed, stealing a piece of the other man's sweet and sour chicken on the way.

The paintings were still wet, artfully done as always and probably very, very useful. Especially in the wrong hands. “You done with these?” He called back to the kitchen, catching Peter's sad nod. It was difficult not to feel bad when lifting and igniting the sheets of paper with electricity, when removing all trace of the prophecies, but this was a necessary sacrifice.

What if they had to leave in a hurry and Renautas found all the pictures, essentially a map of his and Peter's whereabouts for the _literal_ foreseeable future... al over again? Clearly their last batch of drawings were the tools behind Bennet's often miraculous timing these past weeks, and Sylar kicked himself every time he remembered their glaring mistake. They couldn't afford to be so clumsy a second time and Peter _knew_ this! But it still didn't stop him from painting.

*

From the kitchen Peter could smell burning paper mingling with the Chinese food. He didn't watch his latest masterpieces turn to ash. It didn't hurt too much, though, it wasn't like the paintings were strictly necessary anymore now that he and Sylar were going back in time to undo trouble before it even came to pass. The art was more like insurance, like homework or note taking before crashing into an exam with only the basic idea of the subject in mind. Peter had never been any good at exams. Jumping into crazy situations and having to improvise on the spot, however...

Sylar's footsteps proceeded his return and the pair continued to eat in a comfortable silence, broken only, as always, by the sounds of the TV and police scanner nearby. Peter tuned in just to catch the closing lines of yet another report featuring the unidentified “evo vigilantes” who had taken the country by storm – a favourable one this time, which was always a pleasant surprise. He smiled to himself.

A beautiful penthouse, good food, a trusted ally, and the strongest sense of purpose that he had ever known... It was terrifying to acknowledge it, but really, deep down, Peter knew that this should have been the most at home he'd ever felt in his life. That's not to say it was easy – anything but – however no Petrelli thrived without a challenge.

But then why did things still feel... out of place?

It wasn't the same as it used to be. Before Matt's basement. Everything was different now, everything had changed. Peter still felt like an outsider to this world he'd forgotten, felt wretched for how he'd left things with Claire, couldn't contact her without putting himself and Sylar at risk of getting caught, and no matter how ridiculous it sounded... he missed his mother terribly.

It was such a stupid thing. To be a grown man who's mother happened to be the evil queen who'd destroyed not only his _own_ heart, but those of hundreds of other people too, and to actually _miss_ her despite that. Hiro's mention of the woman had disturbed raw emotions anew, and what Peter suddenly wanted more than anything else right now was a hug from Angela Petrelli. He had _just_ reconnected with her after five years apart and, until the rig, hadn't gone more than a week without speaking to her since the carnival. He missed the smell of her perfume. The feel of her hand on his face. They'd always had an affectionate relationship (between the fights, of course), but Peter missed her touch more now than he had for years behind that unbreakable wall.

Was it pathetic of him to wish he could see her, to _understand_ why she'd done what she did? To make her realise that he wasn't a terrorist, that he was only trying to do _good_? To wish she wasn't a murderer or an evil mastermind behind almost every scheme he had encountered over his lifetime? It sure felt like it.

You can love someone even if you hate the things they've done... it was the part of him that allowed Peter to forgive Angela time and time again that was now urging him to try and patch things up with her. Or at the very least give her a chance to explain her actions. He desperately wanted her on his side but more importantly – he hated the thought of her being isolated in that big, empty house so soon after the loss of Nathan. But he wouldn't come crawling back. Not this time. He just couldn't forget what she'd attempted not only in regards to himself and Sylar, which was bad enough, but to the hundreds of people and their families affected by the oil rig.

The disaster of that afternoon was branded like iron against Peter's skin, a mark that still hurt and reminded him each day to do better. Every crime stopped, unstable ability reigned in or accident salvaged in recent weeks was a step in the right direction towards the ever-distant horizon. The people he hadn't managed to save were tattoos scarring his heart and because of them, _for_ them, he was determined to do more than was possible for as long as he physically could. It was a hell of a responsibility, but one that could never fill the bottomless chasm of Peter's fractured conscience.

As for Claire, as for Noah, as for Angela... hard work and a smile were the only remedies. They were the only things Peter knew that could help keep the pain at bay, so hard work and a smile it would be. As long as he kept moving, as long as he acted on instinct, then there wasn't time to think about everything else. And sometimes, like just now, he actually felt close to alright.

*

“You ever think of packing it all in?”

Sylar almost choked on his rice and swiped his hair back, meeting Peter's eyes in disbelief. Where the hell had _that_ come from?! Then warmth spread across the empath's face, letting Sylar in on the game.

“We could go live back in the '90s when everything was simpler.” Peter added, prodding his noodles uselessly. “Get bowl cuts and rent VHS tapes on weekends?”

Sylar chuckled. “Are you kidding? Can you picture me with a bowl cut?”

The pair shared a smile before Peter dropped his eyes back to his dinner, visibly satisfied with the answer he'd got. So he wasn't going to stop? Good. Because Sylar wasn't either. True, this hero business sometimes seemed like a lot more trouble than it was worth (and that was _before_ factoring in the wanted fugitives fiasco), but now that Sylar had had a taste of this lifestyle he couldn't imagine back-peddling to how it had been before.

He snorted, thinking how easy it really _would_ be to run away with his only friend to the golden past. It wasn't the worst idea, actually. Maybe a solid retirement plan if the time ever came... “I can't imagine living the vintage lifestyle. No cell phones, no internet... _overalls_.”

“Sure you can, it'd just be like back ho – back in Matt's dream. Minus the overalls.” Peter peeked at him from beneath long, painted hair.

Sylar was still adamantly clinging to his good mood. It could fade as easily as the sunlight was currently, so he decided to let the guy get away with his Freudian slip. He said nothing and busied himself with more rice, his eyes lingering on a drop of sweet and sour sauce caught on the modest swell of Peter's lower lip. He didn't know it was there, on the numb side, lost amongst the many other splatters of colour decorating his face, and Sylar barely resisted the urge to point it out. He both loved and hated the way everything the other man did in his life had to be an adventure – he couldn't even eat boringly, or even without having to be babysat for fuck's sake. It was exhausting, like looking after a pet, sometimes. It was also amusing as hell.

He minded his line of attention when Peter again filled the gap in conversation. “D'you ever... miss it? Our city?” He was trying to sound nonchalant, a trick he had still yet to master. Then he shrugged, as if regretting starting this topic in the first place. “I dunno, it's just... I just miss not having anyone else to let down, y'know?”

“You mean having only me to let down?” Sylar teased.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Peter breathed out a chuckle and was suddenly engrossed once more in his steadily emptying take-out box. “But _do_ you...? Still think of it sometimes?”

The answer refused to leave Sylar's lips until Peter met his gaze again. As much as he thrived off this crazy roller-coaster ride that they were experiencing now, it would take much more than a few weeks of adrenaline-fuelled heroics to overwrite the past eight, turbulent, torturous and intense years of his existence. Much, much more.

The reformed killer sighed and swallowed, not bothering to hide anything from his features because Peter would find it anyway. “You know I do.”

The tail end of a noodle disappeared into faulty lips before they lifted at the working corner. The smile was one of understanding, a winsome gesture that made the drying paint on Peter's face catch the light and that drop of sauce on his lip sparkle. “Simpler times, right?”

The sensation that accompanied this reminiscing was one that Sylar couldn't decide if he liked or not. It was never comfortable looking back on what he'd left behind, for better or worse, and for a moment he couldn't comprehended why Peter would do this to him. The battle for morality, crushing loneliness, the tough forming of the most fucked up friendship ever to exist... it was certainly different than running for their lives and being branded terrorists by the biggest bully in the world, anyway. Simpler times, indeed.

Choosing to just avoid the topic rather than finish it, Sylar leaned over and helped himself to another piece of Peter's meal, just to teach him for breaching these sensitive waters. “You really are terrible at this.” He chided, gesturing to the state of what had once been an immaculate counter-top.

“Yeah?” Peter asked, bright-eyed and looking as innocent as innocent could be.

“Yes.”

“And you're _not_?”

It all happened too quickly to anticipate: the empath's face glinted with menace, he swiped his hand into the spilled red sauce, and suddenly the sticky substance was being smeared all over Sylar's chin. Peter laughed and sucked his fingers clean while Sylar recoiled and scrubbed at his face, horrified to be caught in such a state.

*

Well, that ought to teach him for being so patronizing. Peter watched with amusement as Sylar tried and failed to wipe the sauce away like a cat frantically grooming itself; this invincible superhuman who has bested by the mere suggestion of incompetence in something so mundane as eating.

Even if everything else _was_ impossibly different now, and Peter _was_ still re-learning his way around the big, scary world, at least one thing was still the same... he couldn't have been more grateful to have this person with him, the only constant that he'd ever known in his life.

He was fondly contemplating pretending there was more sauce on Sylar's face that he was missing, therefore driving him crazier with it, when the TV next door barked a sudden eruption of breaking news into the penthouse. And playtime was officially deemed over.

Standing up with hands gripping the edge of the counter, both Peter and Sylar fell still and silent, listening. Reality crashed violently upon them in the form of a hold-up robbery that had just transpired at the Linderman casino in Las Vegas. Around twenty assailants had broken in and held the place at gunpoint, overpowering security, killing two people and injuring another five along the way.

Sylar looked sadly at his unfinished dinner, but Peter's appetite had suddenly deserted him in the thrill of adventure. Butterflies had infiltrated his stomach and he could _feel_ instinct setting itself into gear. This was what frightened him, but it was also what he lived for. It was what he craved...

“Back to the daily grind.” Sylar hummed, wolfing down as much food as he could while Peter pushed off from the counter and set off hunting for his phone.

“I'll call Hiro...”

***

Mixed voices, vibrant music, artificial beeps and bops and ping-a-lings; a crowded venue, musical chairs, drunk businessmen and tourists and cheaters... the place was exactly the same as Sylar remembered from Nathan Petrelli's memories. Neon blue strip lights framed the walls of the main floor, casting a sickly, synthetic glow over the table games and slot machines. Beautiful women sauntered through the crowds, carrying drinks to the regulars and seducing orders out of anyone who dared hold an empty glass. The atmosphere was one of an impending wild night, and the lack of windows made it impossible to tell it was really only late afternoon outside the Linderman Casino.

Rather longingly, Sylar thought back to the glorious evening he'd just left behind – one that was starting over again back in New York City right now, outside the perpetual night of this casino. But the show must go on. Despite the festivities exploding from all angles, the main floor was packed with guests but still surprisingly empty for this hour, thankfully. Less people meant less potential casualties. It meant more space to seek out a suspect or twenty.

Casually, Sylar lifted a stout glass to his lips and wrinkled his nose at the burn of alcohol hitting his throat. He didn't even like rum. He'd never liked anything alcoholic really, even when he had used to be susceptible to its effects, but this particular, golden beverage might only have been for the slight kick that he might need for this mission...

And of course it was all for show. Beside him, Peter pretended to sip from his gin and tonic as if it was lethal – spoilsport – but at least it was better than holding nothing at all and sticking out like a sore thumb amongst this crowd of other charlatans.

The pair stood nonchalantly against the casino bar, overlooking the gaming floor with eyes slipping steadily over the tables and slot machines. From the outside they didn't look like time travelling fugitives visiting from an hour ahead. In fact, they looked very much at home in this expensive establishment: two stunning young men in fitted shirts and shiny shoes, each nursing an overpriced drink while prospecting where next to blow their cash.

Of _course_ Sylar didn't notice the appreciative glances sent his way from passers by. And he definitely did _not_ adjust himself into a more flattering angle for their gazes. It was just... freeing is all, to be outside without wearing the facade of someone else's appearance. And he also (never having been a vain man) couldn't help but revel in openly being himself before this location would no doubt fill with Renautas agents led by their relentless scout leader.

He dropped his eyes to his companion, now polished and almost unrecognisable as the messy artist from dinnertime. He looked the part alright; well-dressed with his hair pushed back for once, in a way Nathan had been much more familiar with than Sylar. The neat style made Peter appear considerably younger than the noble, strong man he had blossomed into since growing up through those dinner parties with Arthur and Angela's many rich friends. Right now, it was almost difficult to remember all the shit the guy had endured over the past few years.

Peter hadn't wanted to waste time getting dressed up before coming back here to undo a tragedy that had already passed... _time_ being the operative word. However, once Sylar had finished washing every last drop of sweet and sour sauce away he'd managed to persuade the guy they'd need to blend in to get further than the bouncers. He had to admit he was quite impressed with the speed and quality of the transformation of his friend. But nothing in this world is perfect.

Sylar couldn't help but chortle. “Missed a spot...” He subtly reached for a surviving splodge of paint that had somehow gotten itself lodged behind Peter's ear, and wiped away one of very few remnants of an over-written future. What the hell had the guy done earlier? Rolled in the stuff?

Peter impatiently rubbed at his ear while never taking his serious gaze off any guest who could be the bad guy they were looking for. It was all business for him, yet Sylar couldn't help but enjoy the costumed, infiltration, make-believe aspect of a mission such as this, before the real thing kicked off. He'd always liked this part: sort of a starter course to tease his appetite, if you will, and he was currently ravenous to get started on another fresh chance to do something _good_.

He and Peter hid in plain sight amongst the bets and wins and losses, the tears and laughter and drunken profanities, two heroes itching to preserve it all. It was hardly the toughest job in the world to blend in for now. It didn't even matter that the casino's cameras would catch their faces because their identities were still unknown to the public – plus, in a minute there was going to be a hell of a lot more for the staff to deal with than the possible evo vigilantes from the news.... and by the time Renautas claimed the footage, they would be long gone.

So for now Sylar discerned there was nothing much to do but scope the perimeter, pretend to drink, look incredible, and wait.

*

Peering over the rim of his full glass, Peter could feel that same thrill of adventure consuming him from head to toe. It tingled every nerve ending along with the awareness of his current power to control time and space itself. The ability surged reassuringly beneath his skin – his own insistence. Sylar had wanted him to take regeneration for battling twenty gunmen, but what good would that be if he couldn't even get close enough to do any physical damage with his fists? So Peter had won that argument, and he was grateful for it.

Even if not for the compromise: constricting, fine clothing wasn't the most comfortable attire to wear for fighting.

It might have been his current ability, or maybe it was all in his mind, but Peter would swear he could almost _feel_ time moving around him like flying grains of sand in the air. He was aware of every second passing by while he pretended to drink and Sylar pretended not to be lapping up the attention of staring gamblers. True, he didn't know the exact time that the shooting had taken place here, but surely by now they were justified to get things moving?

Once Peter felt the minute hand on his watch hit twelve once more, he dropped his untouched drink to the bar and turned to face Sylar. “Maybe we should split up -”

He was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a barmaid, drawn to his empty hands like a moth to the flame. “Can I get you a drink, cutie?” She flashed him a dazzling smile, an unexpected arrival that instantly made Peter tense in discomfort. “Seems like a crime for such a handsome man to be kept wantin'.”

Peter croaked stupidly, suddenly unable to control his voice and wishing he was anywhere else but here. “What? I, uh...”

It seemed silly to freak out at the slightest sign of socialization, but he hadn't held a conversation with anyone other than Sylar for weeks, aside from reassurance while saving someone's life. And he hadn't been charmed by a beautiful woman since well before the five years spent in the dream. There just wasn't time to fraternize when on the job, and aside from working... well, it was safe to say that Charles' apartment had been sorely lacking in visitors lately.

It startled Peter to suddenly realise that he was close to forgetting how to act like a normal person around strangers. He just didn't know how to react, caught so off guard by this woman when his mind had been in mission-mode. Then somehow he managed to force a smile, hoping his condition wasn't as worrying as it seemed. “...I'm fine, thanks.”

“'Kay, I'll be around if you change your mind, hon.” Peter tried not to notice Sylar's raised eyebrows as the barmaid smiled again and strolled away without even so much as asking _him_ if he wanted a drink. Then tried to recapture his train of thought from before in hopes of derailing the response he could feel stewing inside the taller man.

“What were you so eloquently saying?”

Peter cleared his throat, pretending to be scoping out the games floor so he could turn his face away. “I think we should split up and look for these guys now. Twenty armed assailants can't be _too_ hard to find, right?”

“Maybe you should go ask your girlfriend if she knows anything? She was nice by the way. Can't really see it, but...”

Peter promptly pushed off from the bar, looking everywhere but beside him. “Just go look over at that side.” He instructed, leading his sniggering companion further into the main games floor. He made to separate from his friend, but before he could take more than two steps he was promptly grabbed back.

“Wait.”

“Why? What is it?” Peter stopped, looking around in rising panic.

“Be smart this time.” Sylar reprimanded, trying to fend off a touch of a disobeying smile. “No stopping time if you're touching a civilian, no grabbing an assailant until we're _sure_ it's the right person, and _try_ not to get dragged into a dark corner by a mob of drunk people.”

Peter nodded, spooked at just the memories. “Right.”

“And try and have fun. Remember, we're “heroes”.” Sylar smiled, clapped his friend's arm and then veered off through the table games in search of any prospective culprits. The empath watched after him before shaking himself into gear with a thrilling lurch in his gut. It was on. It was now or never.

Scouring this half of the room, he weaved his way through tables and slot machines, fortunately left to his own devices this time as his eyes swarmed over every person in sight. Young and foolish; old and beyond caring; fun-loving; uptight and regretting it; the first timer; the seasoned gambler; all different ages, different races, all from different walks of life... it was impossible to tell which of these people were planning on hurting seven people here today.

Peter was on edge, preparing Hiro's ability like a trusty umbrella against a burglar, ready to use at a moment's notice. It would only take a second to stop time, and seconds were currently putty in his hands. They were his weapons, his tools, prepared to yield to his every desire but he held the urge at bay for now. The tension was frightening, like it always was when the future hung in the balance, but that was just a symptom of saving the day. It made Peter work harder, push himself further, and he recalled the same sensation overwhelming him back when infiltrating the oil rig and vowed to do better. Sure, it was frightening. But it was worth it, in the end.

He could feel adrenaline teasing him, begging to crash over and consume him but he refused to let it. Instead he walked the fine line along the razor's edge between anticipation and the point of no return, driven mad by the building pressure but relishing every moment of it...

*

On the other side of the room, Sylar worked parallel, mirroring this same trajectory. Prowling like a hunter after his prey, he slipped through crowds like an effortless shadow. He could have gone undetected if he'd wanted (so what if it had been a while since he'd last exercised that most handy of skills, he was sure it wasn't lost to him), but he'd gone to all the effort of dressing up for this occasion. So today, he chose the path that crossed as many eyelines as possible, just for the hell of it.

Every so often he would be treated to a glimpse of the youngest Petrelli family member in the distance through the congested isles of gamblers, intent in his work and practically dripping with concentration. Sylar couldn't help but smile to himself at the sight. Trust Peter: as soon as the countdown began it was all work and no play, no time for fun until everything was taken care of. He _did_ have a point of course, there was no good playing when people's lives hung in the balance (a mindset that had taken years for Sylar to grasp) but didn't he realise there _could_ be enjoyment involved in the process of a mission and not only afterwards?

Sylar ghosted behind a game of roulette, his attention briefly caught by the slowing wheel and the only two men at the table. One, a wealthy politician by the looks of him, with a hefty mound of chips at his side; the other, a worn tourist who appeared close to tears, clutching onto his last chip with white knuckles. It only took a second to conclude that the politician was tipping the odds in his favour with his will and a dance of his fingers. A silent song that Sylar knew very well.

So he was using an ability to cheat at gambling? What a pathetic waste of such a gift. Clearly he didn't even need the money, which meant this was all an ego trip. The guy was all grin and blinding teeth, an easy smile that only accompanied self-assurance. All at once chills swarmed over Sylar at the unwelcome reminder of one Nathan Petrelli.

The dead Senator's memories were hazy to recall nowadays, a salvation that Sylar could not be more grateful for. Yet for the first time in weeks one rose to greet him, unbidden: Nathan, possibly sitting at this very table, cleaning out his opponent without even batting an eye. It was all in spirit of the game... the other guy had known what he'd signed up for, nobody had _made_ him bet the money for his flight home... And when Nathan's security had escorted the loser away, Sylar could distinctly recall the arrogant man pondering over splurging this money at once or adding it towards the funds for re-decorating the beach house...

Back in the present, Sylar barely hesitated before twitching his index finger, merely _suggesting_ an alternate trajectory of the ball's landing. He then moved on with his business, lips curving when the tourist's cheer of delight and the politician's stunned silence rebounded after him.

Who said there had to be _no_ play when working...?

But then that thought was shot to hell in the next instant. Because Sylar would _swear_ he just saw... _no_...

*

Twenty suspicious people... twenty suspicious people... as he'd said earlier, it shouldn't be too difficult to spot a conspicuous group, right? No: the hard part was trying not to look obvious or scare them away in the process.

Senses alert, nerves tingling, Peter reassured himself with having Hiro's power ready and waiting as he searched, like thumbing over a primed and sharpened weapon before drawing it...

A scream from his left almost made him jump, re-affirming the hold on the handle of his ability. There were more screams, then cheers, then laughter: roughly two dozen very pink, very drunk women were falling over a ring of plush couches and two tables worth of empty glasses, tucked away in one of many secluded alcoves stamped along the walls. Just a bachelorette party. Should it be worrying that the gunmen didn't seem quite as intimidating as this...? Heeding Sylar's earlier warning of drunk mobs, Peter smiled at the women's glee and made to hurry past before any of them noticed him.

But in the process of backing away, he bumped into a young Chip Runner, sending countless small, plastic discs clattering to the floor. Burning under the spotlight of attention, Peter dropped to his knees to help her crawl around the carpet for them, apologising profusely. He cringed and reached for a far chip, flicking his disobedient hair back into position.

But everything else in the entire Casino was wiped from existence as his eyes landed on a tall man rounding the slot machines.

...It... it was _him_...! The man from the paintings! Peter was _sure_ of it! He'd seen that face enough times by now – how could he _not_ recognise him?! Forgetting all about the reason he'd come back in time in the first place, he just couldn't stop staring as his foretold vision slowly but surely lumbered across the games floor.

He was _big,_ in height and in muscle, decked out in what was probably a designer suit, briefcase and earpiece, and could have easily passed for casino security had he been wearing an identifying logo. Maybe he was with the police? Or maybe he was a private bodyguard for one of the guests? Peter couldn't guess, and in the end it didn't even matter because he was _the_ guy and that was enough, and suddenly the twenty armed assailants didn't even mean anything at all. He could feel it fluttering in his gut like wings: _this_ was the reason he was here! Even if this man had nothing to do with the shooting – if he was important enough to show up in prophetic paint than he sure as hell was important enough to follow!

...If only Peter could stop gaping like an idiot and get his stunned thoughts, body and ability to play nice. He was still sprawled out on the itchy carpet, one arm stretched out towards the chip that he'd never reach, when the muse from his last twenty paintings disappeared into the sea of slot machines.

Kicking himself, he scrambled to his feet, gave a hurried apology to the poor Chip Runner and set off through the grid of machines with his heart pounding in his throat and his ability slipping a tantalising hold over his body, just in case...

*

There was no way this was a coincidence. True enough, Sylar _could_ recognise that guy a mile away, after all! There was no mistaking him.

Instinctively he knew that the mission had just kicked into second gear, and that he had to do something about it _now_. However, he didn't think it wise to attack or apprehend a suspect until he was sure he _was_ a suspect... what if, on the off chance, Picasso here was one of the good guys? It was unlikely, and Sylar's initial judge of character had rarely been wrong in the past... but there had to be better options than kickstarting a fight in the middle of a crowd. Maybe he should try to approach the guy first and take him to one side or something?

It sounded like the sort of thing Peter would come up with, which tickled Sylar, but it also sounded like the sort of thing he himself would usually dismiss as foolish and asking for trouble. He wasn't sure what to do about this prophesised man popping up at the scene of a crime (electrocute him? Lock him in place?), but there wasn't time to dwell on all the options.

Starting in the direction of the dark man, Sylar cleared his throat even though he was too far away to be heard. “Excuse me –”

The subject of his introduction suddenly locked eyes with Sylar. Even from the other side of a loud, ringing queue of gamblers and machines. He stopped walking, raked his gaze up and down the watchmaker's form, and then his face flickered with the faintest trace of a smirk. Regret spilled over Sylar at the exact second the other man's briefcase thudded to the floor, and he knew he'd been wrong before, that he should have listened to his own advice, and that underestimating the enemy _was_ just asking for trouble.

Defensiveness rushed to Sylar's fingertips in the form of his trusty abilities, and he surrendered to the lure of them as the gunman tightened his hold on the pistol in his hand and raised it into the air. Oh, he had _no_ idea who he was dealing with...

*

Until now, Peter had never realised that a casino could substitute so well for a maze. The place was huge, there were tons of machines that all looked the same and he suspected he might have wandered in a circle in his hunt of the illusive man. He didn't even know what he was going to do if he caught up to him! Grab him? Accuse him? Take him to one side and talk things over gently –

_BANG!_

Peter flinched as the unmistakeable sound of a gunshot ricocheted behind him. His heart dropped and he span on the spot, lost amongst identical betting machines and the beginnings of a confused, terrified crowd.

_BANG!_

Another shot rent the air from a different location, and this time the crowd erupted into screams and stampeding feet. The second bang ran right through Peter like a blade, chilling him to the core. Shit! No! It wasn't supposed to happen! Fumbling for Hiro's power, he hurried to get a grip on himself and halt time before things spiralled out of control –

But all at once he was hit by a growing, overwhelming swarm of civilians fleeing the gunshots. People rubbed past at either side, therefore embedded in the radius of Peter's ability were he to use it now. Flustered and confused, he tried to struggle free but there were too many of them! So he had no choice but to speed up his initial hunt, ducking past machines and fighting against the tide of people invading his fragile space. Warding off the sense of claustrophobia, he despised himself for being so stupid and abandoning the whole reason he'd come back here in the first place! He should never have followed that other guy when there was something else so crucial needing his attention!

Finally, he opened the dam on his emotions and allowed welcome adrenaline to coarse through his veins and take the pressure off slightly. The urge to stop time or teleport in order to get a picture on the scenario engulfed him further, but he was still sandwiched on both sides by fleeing civilians brushing against him, and had learned that lesson the hard way. So – fuck! – he couldn't even use the ability he'd thought would void any loopholes in the plan! He was, as always, too stupid, too slow and too useless!

But wait – Sylar! There was still Sylar. A commotion was definitely unfolding up ahead (the other gunmen, Peter was certain). Only two shots out of twenty different guns had gone off so far, which must mean that some of them had come up against a particular tall, dark and powerful hurdle. Gratitude for his partner in crime gave Peter the strength to finally break through the evasive end of the crowd, to his relief. Almost tripping on these stupid formal shoes, he caught himself stumbling to a stop in the centre of a graciously empty aisle of machines to catch his breath.

Only... it wasn't so empty upon second glance.

Breathing deeply, Peter straightened and pushed his now tousled hair off his face. Only to find himself standing in the path of a tall, masked man and his gun.

His heart jolted and his throat wouldn't let him emit the curse that passed his lips, then everything was a flashing, bleeping, multi-coloured blur and Peter found himself huddled behind one of the slot machines _just_ as a bullet _THWACKED_ off the other side. Holy shit...

He was trembling, from the rush of adrenaline, he chose to tell himself, and gasping in unsteady breaths. You'd think that after weeks of non-stop heroics a guy would get desensitised to this kind of thing! Funny... regeneration was starting to sound like a pretty good idea, after all...

Rooted to the spot, Peter looked wildly about himself while recovering his focus and hearing. There were two security guards lying on the floor nearby – either unconscious or worse – a sight that made Peter sick to his stomach. How hadn't he noticed that happen?! And how organised were these guys to have taken down security before even open firing?!

Another shot accompanied another deafening echo in the metal at his back, this one definitely from a closer range than the last one. Fuck, focus – _focus_! Peter closed his eyes and tried to concentrate and even his breathing. So security were out. Which meant it was all down to him and Sylar. No big deal. They'd done this kind of thing before...

He wished that could be more encouraging than it was. He hoped Sylar was doing okay.

Another bullet hit the machine, then another, and another as the attacker honed in on his target. Ten steps away... five... two...

At last the man rounded the corner of the now destroyed machine – but there was nothing where the outmatched smaller man had been just a second ago. The gunman stood, confused but for one instant before the teleporter _popped_ into being right behind him.

“Guess again!” Peter growled, grabbing onto the shooter and knocking the weapon from his hand.

Sure, he hadn't exactly been banking on getting himself into a fight such as this, but now that he had he was going to finish it; running out on battle was _not_ in Peter's blood. He was going to make a difference to the future, even if this was to be his only input!

The paramedic wrestled his arms around his opponent's neck from behind, bending him backwards and constricting his airflow. The gunman grunted and thrashed around, clawing large hands at Peter's arms and head, but the little man refused to be dislodged with all the strength he possessed. The enemy was considerably bigger than Peter (a fact he had yet to notice before engaging in fist to fist combat with the guy), but it would take a hell of a lot more than that for him to be put out of action so easy! The gunman wrenched his upper body forward, almost bending double, and subsequently lifted Peter's well-dressed feet clean off the floor – but still he wasn't swayed! He endured scratches to his hands, wrists and elbows and muted blows to his face as the two entangled men staggered around the flashing neon aisle of casino games.

The paramedic found himself strangely grateful for all the hands-on practice he'd had at defending himself over the past few years (what else was to be expected when trapped in an empty world with nothing but an enemy and a _lot_ of unresolved issues?), but whereas he was perhaps now too familiar with Sylar's fighting style and moves, a new opponent apparently posed new challenges. And new surprises.

Peter adjusted his weight on this man's back, clambering to the side with the intention of toppling him at the waist – a particular delicate spot of Sylar's – but before he could even get firm footing, his attacker slammed what felt more like a baseball bat than an elbow into his ribcage. He felt his lungs crush, all the air was drawn from him in one cry and his arms let go of their own accord.

Peter fell backwards into one of the loudly chirping machines, the sharp angles of the thing stabbing his back. Suddenly the masked assailant was gone from his space, leaving the little man helplessly slumped into the machine, gasping and groaning in his wake.

It felt like bruises formed in seconds, blossoming from his sternum and spine down the length of every rib like ice forming over water. Peter's groggy perception of only pain and disorientation was pierced by a deep, grumbling voice, and he managed to focus on his masked assailant once more standing before him, with his gun back in his hand.

“You're not even worth all this...”

Before Peter could begin to interpret that statement, contain his racing heart or even as much as close his eyes and command time to stand still, the man took one step forward, eyes glinting.

Then with a _whoosh_ , the gun was whisked out of his hand and splintered into a hundred pieces in mid air.

Peter could only stare and try to remember how to breathe as the owner of the gun then followed its descent down the aisle, spinning head over heels through the air with a rusty yowl of surprise. Then he blinked as none other than his only friend came hurrying into his view, a very welcome sight.

“Y'know what I just remembered? I still hate guns.” Sylar scoffed to mask the upset that was filtering through anyway, and helped Peter to his feet. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah, I'm fine. Thanks.” He managed to grunt, massaging his aching chest with his hand. Screams and gunshots and running people were still sounding from every side, and the full scale of the casino came rushing back to him in a painful gasp. “The others -”

“I took some down already, there's more up ahead.” Sylar's voice was steady, but his tone was inflicted with exhilaration, anger and worry.

*

He couldn't understand how these guys had appeared so suddenly out of nowhere. How in the time Sylar had disarmed and knocked down the first guy, the one from the paintings, the whole swarm of his masked buddies had taken up shop around the entire floor. Did they all have invisibility? The ability to hide themselves under illusion? He didn't have the suitable time to ponder over all the variables, and it was maddening. But at the same time, he felt like a cheetah pelting across the open plain without borders or limitations, and every assailant he managed to hinder only increased the lifespan of Sylar's internal batteries.

The freedom of using abilities still generated the same heady buzz as they always had, and in moments like this Sylar couldn't remember how he'd ever lived without them throughout the entirety of Matt's punishment. He was only getting started here and was well and truly hyped from his few successful take-downs. It concerned him, though, that Peter seemed not to have had such a productive go at it. He observed his friend with soft eyebrows and a hint of sympathy.

“What happened? Why didn't you stop time?”

“I – I couldn't. There were people – too close...” Peter heaved, struggling to recover use of his lungs. Sylar ached to either tell him off for not doing so earlier, or force him to take regeneration now, but decided against either facing Peter's wrath or losing Hiro's power. “Then I had to stop _him_ , this guy...” Sylar followed Peter's nodding gesture to where his latest take-down was sprawled ungracefully over the carpet.

So this was what had haunted Peter through all those paintings of the leader? This was what he had been trying to foresee? Sylar didn't like the thought that he'd dismissed the pictures as repetitive and boring now that he was in the thick of the event itself.

“Peter. I saw that guy from your paintings.” He said darkly, anticipating a freak-out on his friend's behalf. “He was the one that started this.”

But Peter didn't look surprised in the slightest, instead only frustration crossed his already pained features. “Damn it...” he hissed, wiping a hand over his face. His eyes searched around the disembodied voices of the commotion flowing all around before he stood up straight, concentration dousing over him. “We have to stop him. Where is he now?” The young man asked, closing his eyes and furrowing his brow in a way that could only mean he was preparing to stop time.

Sylar accepted the hand grabbing his forearm by moving closer to the other man, readying himself. “I put him down back at the craps table, it's the rest of them we need to worry about -”

_BANG!_

*

Another gunshot – this one too close for comfort – made them both jump, and they turned to stare in horror as an older woman tumbled into their aisle and collapsed to the floor.

She screamed and clutched at her upper arm, blood spilling through her fingers and into the carpet. Her whines of pain threw Peter out of any thoughts of moving, and he knew at once that he couldn't leave her like this to go rounding up the assailants. She was alone, and hurt, and scared, Peter knew how to help her and if _he_ didn't then she'd bleed out before anyone else arrived, so how could he possibly turn his back?! But he also couldn't just leave the gunmen to freely wreck havoc for much longer.

*

There was only a split second to decide which path to take in changing the future; a split second in which both Peter and Sylar shared the same mind space as if they could hear the other think.

“It's alright,” Sylar smiled, pulling free of his friend's hold only to grasp his shoulder tightly, reassuringly. Realistically there was only one way this had to go, but it was unlikely the little man would be the one to make the push forward. “Help her, then come find me.”

He waited for Peter's conflicted nod of agreement, then crossed to the whimpering woman. “You're going to be okay, my friend here's going to look after you.” He assured her, stooping to touch his fingertips lightly to her good arm. “You're lucky, I speak from experience when I say he's the best nurse you could ever ask for.”

*

The reformed killer looked back with a spark in his eyes, one Peter both envied and admired at once, then he stormed towards the heart of the fight with both fists shrouded in flickering blue electricity and was gone.

The empath watched his friend retreat with more than a little awe, impressed anew like he was every time the guy threw himself into these missions as if he'd always belonged in this role.

Peter only wished he could do the same. That he could be strong enough to help here _and_ fight by Sylar's side. He wished that he didn't feel inferior for having to back out of the battle at the last second, or guilty for leaving the bulk of the work to his companion. At least temporarily, until he could get back out there...

Burying these thoughts, he hurried to his new patient and dropped to his knees beside her. He might not be able to fly, heal, use electricity and telekinesis all at once, but _this_ he could do. The whole point of this lifestyle was to help people in need, wasn't it? And so help people Peter would.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops! I was writing to this chapter when I suddenly noticed it was at THIRTY pages (yes! Again!) and I'm still not finished! So I just decided to split it in half – this update has surprised me by suddenly being finished and ready to go as soon as I put the break in, but of course I'm going to share it with you guys ^.^ 
> 
> You can think of it as part 1 of 2 if you like, but it doesn't have to be seen that way. The next half is very nearly finished so that should be posted within the next few days fingers crossed! X) I hope you liked this update, it's a LOT more calm than the last one, huh? At least at the beginning hehe. I think we all (Peter and Sylar and you and me) really needed a a break from stress after the shitstorm of the rig, so I hope it was enjoyable. Let me know X)
> 
> I'm going to take this opportunity to oh-so-subtly ask you to go and check out my gallery of Petlar fan art – I'm not really sure if this is a done thing or not, but I made a new story just for posting my drawings here on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10701150/chapters/23702379  
> I'll have many more pieces to come I'm sure, and I've actually been working on a Tongues of Fire drawing with Yajanele (thanks again for your beautiful work!!) that I can't wait to share with you guys really, really soon! So please stay tuned ^.^


	13. Double or Nothing

Prowling through the maze-like floorplan, Sylar barely even had to look before twisting his wrist and sending a blade of telekinesis and blinding blue light at an approaching attacker. The man groaned and was sent sprawling backwards through the air before he could cause any more harm.

Sylar almost snarled in victory. Making sure he'd hit his mark with enough force to put him out the fight but not enough to cause him serious harm, he then wrenched the gun from the man's hand. Silently dedicating the deed to no other than one Noah Bennet for his over-reliance on such weapons, he took extra care to destroy the thing beyond repair.

Flames of purpose grew richer within the reformed killer as he turned his back on his fallen foe and set off deeper into the fight. _This_ was what it was all about. _This_ was why all of the bad stuff was worth it. His hearing was piqued, his heart dancing and abilities unfurling over and under and around him in the most persuasive scent that he couldn't dream of denying. Not when innocents were depending on them. Not when he needed them to prove himself worthy as a hero...

*

Peter cupped his crying patient's cheek kindly, speaking quietly but surely. “Listen to me, you're gonna be fine, alright? I'm an EMT, I'm here to help you...”

He said it even after assessing the severity of her wound. Upon closer inspection, he'd noted that she was middle-aged, Latino, dressed to the nines, and that the sleeve of her dress was ripped by a bullet hole and ruined by a gruesome amount of blood. At least the shot had missed her artery, thank god. The dress was ruined, but that could easily be replaced. Arms, however...? Not always. There wasn't much he could do for her except try to stop the bleeding, but even that would be a challenge out here in the open with dangerous assailants lurking around every corner.

He tried not to hurt her too much while pressing down on the wound. Shit this would be so much easier if he had any medical equipment at his disposal – or even healing blood to give her! But for now all he had were his hands, his head and his heart, and that would have to be enough.

Nearby, flashing electricity projected a fight between shadows across the walls, like a neon series of white-blue snapshots charting Sylar's journey. Sounds of the unseen commotion was still ricocheting around the cavernous room: yells and grunts and the occasional, more distant, _zap_ of an electrical bolt, making it difficult for Peter to clearly focus on what he was doing while part of him wanted nothing more than to be out there too.

He was so engrossed between the fight and his medical ministrations that he almost didn't hear his patient's voice break through the ruckus. “...Help... me...” She pleaded through trembling lips. Peter's heartstrings almost snapped, and he wrenched his attention wholly back to this spot.

“I will. Okay, I _promise_. But we need to get you outta here first...” Another pattering of bullets broke into the air, some hitting the ceiling above and raining paint and mortar down on the pair. They definitely couldn't stay here much longer.

“It... hurts...”

Peter's gut flipped. “I know, I know it does, but I need you to try and walk with me right now...” Suddenly recalling the bachelorette party from earlier, and the alcoved insets lining the room, Peter awkwardly helped his patient off the floor, looking around for the fastest, easiest way into cover.

*

Most of the gunshots were just scaremongering, Sylar was pleased to note. That woman back with Peter must've been one of the unfortunate ones, because he'd already taken down another three masked men who had been just waving their guns around and shooting the walls and ceiling. That was eight taken care of so far, including Mr Prophecy at the start. Only eight out of twenty or so. Jeez. It sure was tiring, but that fire was still burning beneath Sylar's skin, keeping him revitalised and fresh for the hunt.

It felt good, it felt _right_ to be out here helping while Peter worked his magic back there, both of them saving lives, the muscle and the heart, doing their individual part to cover as much ground as possible. Sylar itched to take down all these bastards in one fell swoop, but that was easier said than done when factoring civilians into the mix. He didn't want to give Peter more wounds to tend to. So one by one it had to be, and it was far from over yet.

He continued to creep between the mass of slot machines as if through tombstones in a graveyard, eyes scanning for any sign of his next fight. The machines had turned out to be very helpful so far in aiding his advantage of surprising the bad guys with a hefty electric shock or a sudden, mysterious case of paralysis... But over at this side of the room things were quieter: there were no fleeing civilians or idiots stupidly putting themselves further into harms way by not running to the fucking door like a normal person, or even any target-less shots for dramatic effect, for that matter. It was almost eerily vacant.

No... but Sylar could hear voices, all the same. He could hear _scared_ voices. And one that was not. One that definitely wasn't a victim's.

Instead of charging in again, abilities blazing, the change in scenario was enough to draw him closer, unseen. Things seemed pretty still, so reconsidering his approach, he slid up against the last slot machine in the herd, as close as he could get to the event without revealing himself. Peeking around the corner with his practised hearing filling in the blanks of his vision, Sylar discerned that there was a large group of what appeared to be hostages grouped on the floor, and an armed, powerful captor pacing in front of them as if he owned the place.

Suddenly his heartbeat thudded heavier in his ears like a drumbeat, a jarring contrast to the lively, mechanical tunes chiming at his back. But it wasn't anticipation that was driving his pulse this time. It was a flash of recognition that he wished he couldn't place.

*

“Here we go... almost there...” Peter puffed as he dragged the weight of his patient into the alcove. His senses were on high alert and he couldn't believe they'd managed to make it here unseen, but he wasn't about to question their good favour. “There, lie down...” He lowered the woman onto one of the couches lining the wall with her damaged arm facing him, then dropped to his knees in order to see it better.

Shit, it wasn't looking too good: almost her entire sleeve was drenched red by now, the bullet hole in her arm raw and torn. Blood continued to well up and spill over the wound like a blocked drain, so dark it appeared almost black before gravity kicked in and it dripped, very red, onto the couch cushion below her. Hiding his thoughts from his face, Peter ripped the ruined sleeve off in order to use as a makeshift tourniquet, trying to distract his charge from his ministrations as much as he was able.

“Hey – what's your name?” He asked. She floundered for a moment, as if she couldn't even remember. “Tell me your name.” Peter gently prompted, trying not to hurt her while his hands slipped in the blood.

“L...Lucia...”

“Huh. I have an aunt called Lucia. Father's side.” Peter smiled at her, then pulled a thoughtful face. “I'll bet you're a lot nicer than her, though.” Aunt Lucia was certainly not his favourite relative, to say the least. The last time he'd seen her had been at his father's “funeral”, and even then she'd demanded he re-evaluate himself and not be so sensitive, because _real_ men don't cry and _real_ men don't let their emotions lead them into embarrassing life choices like _women's_ work or minimum wage hospice care. In good Petrelli fashion, she'd never failed to find a fault or fifty in every decision Peter had ever made in his life...

If only she could see the state he'd gotten himself into now.

He worked tenderly but securely with Lucia's arm, trying to keep the pressure on with one hand while winding the ripped sleeve around with his other. More echoes rang out from the main floor behind them. Wincing, Peter's fingertips brushed a little too close to the bullet wound.

Lucia hissed and more tears ran black streaks of mascara down her cheeks. “I'm scared.” She whispered, and Peter wanted to hug her. For the sake of social decency he refrained, and concentrated on his work while keeping his voice light.

“Happens to the best of us.” He soothed, hoping to come across as trusting and relaxed and not a total hypocrite. “And that's okay. Because even if we're scared, it doesn't mean we're useless. It doesn't mean we can't still be strong.” Peter truly did believe that, this very same mentality that was keeping him alive right now. That didn't mean it was as easy as he was making it sound for Lucia's benefit, though.

She winced and shuffled on the couch, thankfully still conscious and alert. She must have been blanking out the current ordeal due to shock, but she was much more aware now than she had been so far, which Peter chose to look at as a good sign. “But _you_ are so calm...”

At this, he actually laughed. “Oh, I'm not calm.” His hands were even shaking that very second and his nerves were awake and going haywire over the entire surface of his body: he was anything _but_ calm.

“Tell me why?” Lucia was looking at him with large eyes that were graceful even with tears in them, make-up smudging off them and wrinkles framing the outsides – trusting eyes. Maternal eyes. She had really latched onto this topic to keep her grounded it seemed, and suddenly Peter noticed where he'd accidentally put himself: on the verge of actively participating in a real, revealing conversation with someone who wasn't his best friend.

Instantly this freaked him out and he almost retreated. But then he remembered how daunted he'd felt by that barmaid earlier. How he never used to be that way. And how long it had been since he'd last talked to someone new for more than providing reassurance. Even though it probably wasn't the best procedure in bedside manner... Peter found himself wanting to open up to Lucia the way he hadn't opened up to anyone since the events at the oil rig had seared the pain shut into a hidden scar inside him. It couldn't harm to air these putrid secrets if it would help her... right?

He exhaled quietly. “...Can I be honest with you, Lucia?”

Looking mostly at the knot he was now gently tying around her bleeding arm, Peter glanced up briefly to see the older woman nod at him in a genuine desire to listen. For a second he didn't know how to begin. And then he just sighed out a dry chuckle and didn't even think about it.

“I've never been more terrified in my life than I am right now.”

He could feel Lucia watching his face, but couldn't look up from tying the knot perhaps more intricately than it needed. “Really?” She prompted, like she was clinging to his answer to draw her away from her own problem. Which was the only reason it was okay to do this in the first place.

“Yeah.” Peter nodded and his hair just happened to fall over his face, hiding him from view.

“Why is that...? Ow -”

“Sorry...” Peter finished the tight knot and covered it with his hand again, pressing down. Still he didn't look at her face, although he no longer had an excuse not to. “...Have you ever felt like you don't... I dunno, _belong_ anymore?”

It probably should have been more of a struggle, but instead he found it surprisingly easy to part his lips and let everything transform from the gluttonous mass of agony into an almost coherent monologue.

“I was, uh, away for a while. And it's been harder to settle back into things than I thought it would be. I'm trying... but things just aren't the same. It's weird to think that for _years_ I thought of nothing but getting home, but now that I'm here... let me just say that home is much more overwhelming than I remember it.” Somehow this came out gently, as if he was talking about something easy, something much less monumental than the corners of his world crumbling one by one. He continued to watch his hands as he worked on stemming the bleeding, although it was far from a pretty sight. “I'm taking things day by day, but... my family – the family that I have _left –_ they're not too happy with me right now.” His eyes closed briefly of their own accord, as if to ward off the incoming onslaught of faces that attacked his memory. It didn't work.

“Why not?”

Peter sighed out a hoarse, bitter laugh, like it could ever, in any universe, be funny. “They don't like who I am anymore. What I've _done_... They all think I'm crazy.” He lost his voice for a second. “My mother is a story of her own, trust me, and my niece... I'm scared she'll never speak to me again.” Peter's hands trembled more and he tightened his hold around Lucia's oozing wound.

Just as his thoughts travelled to the reason for this estrangement, another _BANG_ and more screams floated towards the alcove. Both Peter and his patient startled. Noah, Claire, Angela and the rest of them: how could they treat him like a criminal for trying to prevent stunts like _this_ from happening? Why didn't they even _try_ to understand that he hadn't meant to hurt anyone at the rig? And since when did his choice of company merit total exile from the family...? These were dilemmas that Peter had battled with time and time again, but for all his worrying of the matters he was no closer to an understanding now than he had been at the start. Didn't his loved ones at least recognise the man they used to see in him after these past weeks of newsworthy heroics? How could they disown him like this as if it didn't mean a thing? ...Did they even care about him at all...? It sure didn't feel like it.

Lucia whimpered in pain again and Peter quickly continued, partly to block out the surrounding terror from his patient, partly to derail that difficult line of thought. “Now that I'm back here, I have a job to do.” He reminded himself aloud. “And they don't approve of it. I'm even terrified that I'm not good enough to do this job, but there are people who need me to help them and I can't just... _stop_. I don't want to. I don't even think I _could_ if I wanted to!” He broke off for a self-depreciating head shake, one that accidentally brought his eyeline in contact with Lucia's. And suddenly he was extremely aware that he'd just blabbed _far_ too much on some poor, unsuspecting woman who he was supposed to be helping! Somewhere along the line he had lost the difference between sharing enough to identify with her pain, and being unable to just stop talking.

He shocked himself by realising how easily his insecurities had escaped him just then, the ones he had feared to even acknowledge for weeks now. He hadn't even spoken a word of this aloud to Sylar! Although that hardly meant that the guy didn't know how much it had been crippling him. Now that he was thousands of miles away from Charles' soothing apartment, and now that his only friend was out of sight, Peter suddenly remembered exactly how much it hurt when he forgot to hold everything at bay. And exactly _why_ he hadn't touched on this topic until now.

Hastily backtracking in hopes of resealing the floodgates, he shrugged modestly. “It's just... sometimes I wonder if I'll ever get through all this without losing my mind along the way. That's all.” He forced a small smile, as if all this was no big deal.

Lucia's arm twisted under his palm, and Peter's heart plummeted at the knowledge she was trying to escape him. Only... then he realised she was reaching out, not turning away. With a groan she lifted her hand into the air, and it took a few seconds before Peter understood what she was asking of him. His fingers were wet and bloody and she shouldn't really be moving her arm, but out of concern for both their mental well-beings he grasped her hand anyway.

Even though she was tear-stained, sweating and in pain, her understanding smile might've been the nicest thing Peter had seen all afternoon. “I- I think... you are good enough... to do this job, darling.”

She didn't say anything more, but that was alright because the broken empath was overwhelmed by this alone. He was so touched by this sincere interaction – the first time he'd taken that leap with a stranger since rejoining the real world – and the fact that she'd actually _listened_ and wasn't running for the hills, that he couldn't have spoken much more anyway. He met her smile with a grateful crinkle of his eyes before squeezing her fingers, setting her hand down, and getting back to work feeling considerably more capable than he had just a minute ago.

Was it praise that was now making him feel funny? Had it really been that long since he'd received any that he'd forgotten what it felt like...?

“Yep.” He managed to chuckle shyly. “You're much nicer than my aunt Lucia.”

*

Motherfucker.

Sniffles and whines snaked around the crowd of hostages wherever their masked captor drew close. These people who had only a few minutes ago been drunk and happy and waving their money or expensive jewellery around were now scattered together on the same, dirty level at the feet of a tormentor. A level that was a far cry from the usual elite they were used to. The cheating politician from before might have even been amongst the crowd, but was no longer plastered with that dazzling grin and he was nowhere near as confident in his ability to manipulate fate now.

Oh, how Sylar knew this game. He knew that many different faces could somehow still distort into the same expression of terror; that some people shook, some tensed, some got angry and some just gave up, but it didn't matter which sad stunt they pulled as long as it was a reaction. A reaction was validation. And validation was all the captor wanted from them.

Anger and shame welled at once, and he wanted to break up this sick charade before wasting another second! He wanted to charge in there and save these people and prove himself...! He _wanted_ to. But that wasn't enough to unlock his joints and actively insert himself into a re-enactment of the memories he'd been trying to outrun for almost a decade. While he had been hiding here for a good minute now, just out of sight, gathering the will to move, his body still wouldn't obey his command. All that delicious power and purpose from before... now were nowhere to be found when confronted by the ugly face of guilt.

“...Nobody has to get hurt as long as you stay down and behave...” At the other side of the slot machine, the gunman addressed his rapt audience. “It won't be too long until my... _brothers_ are done, and then you can all go home to your families and mundane little lives with your riches and your _freedom_...”

Sylar's skin crawled. The guy was enjoying playing with his food in that I-could-care-less manner that was intended to give off the impression that these people were inconsequential, really. He wished he didn't know how that felt. He wished he didn't have to be reminded of his darkest days. Especially not in a way that shone a spotlight on them and exposed them as nowhere near as fun or charming as he'd thought at the time.

During his stint as an active serial killer, he hadn't ever cared about the fate of his victims. In fact, the thoughts had never even crossed his mind while he toyed with them: what was their very first memory? Were they a cat or dog person? What was the last thing they'd said to their loved ones? Did they have a secret, and now forever unaccomplished, dream? Every single one of them had been a human being. A _person_. Of course Sylar _knew_ this, but somehow it hadn't properly registered at the time. Which was probably why it had been so easy to dispose of hundreds of them using many, many differentiating methods.

Currently, the remorseful killer felt sick enough to wholly regret eating all that Chinese food for dinner. Even the way this captor was addressing his victims was pitiful in comparison to how _he_ had used to play the game...

“Wh-what did we ever do to you?!” A civilian voice.

A grumbled chortle. “This is not personal. Just... insurance...”

Sylar stung all over. He couldn't withstand much more of this. The sting bloomed into a rash, and the rash dug jagged roots deep down below his skin until his form was literally trembling and he wasn't even sure if he was going to shout or expel an electric current from his skin. Without even planning to this time, he stepped out from his hiding place and into full view of the civilians with the final embers of fire burning in his eyes. “...It's _always_ personal!”

The hostages flashed with hope and relief; the gunman twirled on the spot and Sylar speared his hand towards his target, lassoing him with an invisible whip of telekinesis. He hauled the man through the air towards him with no regard for handling him gently, to the renewed fear of the staring crowd and the outrage of the captor. Once his fingers clamped around a clothed windpipe, Sylar slammed his victim onto a nearby table, sending discarded chips clinking into the air upon impact.

Pinning him to the table surface, Sylar glared down upon the embodiment of his own regrets with an unintelligible tornado of feelings storming inside his chest. He only barley remembered to command the hostages to run outside through the pathway he'd cleared of assailants, before turning his full attention back to this one who wasn't even attempting to struggle. He only lay still, unblinking, as all his bargaining chips fled the premises. Suddenly he wasn't such a smooth talker now that he was no longer in control.

“Oh, I'm _sorry_. Did I kill the mood...?” Sylar snarled, voice dripping with contempt. His captive said nothing. All Sylar could see of him were dark, colourless eyes and a smirk through the holes in the mask, but it was more than enough to know he was being taunted. Bristling, with his free hand he grabbed for the hem of the mask and ripped it clean off, preparing to completely devalue his captive's motive with a sharp tongue and wit alone if need be!

Only, all such intentions trickled away as his eyes struggled to process the identity of the man below him. Who else was it, but the same man from Peter's many paintings. The same man who Sylar had already put out of action across the other side of the casino.

*

The sounds seemed to be dying down, and Peter caught a glimpse of a herd of civilians sprinting for the exit across the room. He glanced back down at Lucia's bandage, which seemed to be doing its job well enough, and wondered how much longer he should leave Sylar before joining back into the thick of things.

He always hated separating from his friend on their missions, even though Sylar's track record (as far back as Peter had known him, even) gave no reason to worry for his survival. It wasn't only that which was urging at the empath, though. It was longing for the moral support that came with being a team, with working together and fighting side by side. There was nothing else like it: to be able to transcend so many borders with someone as painlessly. For example, Peter had never before known someone who he could happily share dinner with one minute and charge into battle with the next. It still felt new, something he had never imagined would be possible for him, even up until that wall had finally broken and set them free to _choose_ to stick together...

“Your friend?”

He was startled by Lucia's rather apt change in topic. The woman seemed calm now, lying still and watching him with a clarity that cancelled out concern over blood loss being the reason. Peter could actually feel fulfilment carve another notch into his heart from managing to help someone.

“Yeah?”

“You do not have to – to do it all alone.” It was clear from the look on her face that she hadn't magically forgotten everything that Peter was now slightly regretting telling her. However, she was smiling through the pain, and he gladly accepted her support with an uncontrollable curve of his lips.

“I know.”

It was true. He _did_ know. And that was the most precious thing in the world. With that resurgence of affection, Peter discerned that Lucia's arm was tended to enough that she would be okay if he left to rejoin Sylar at last.

“I gotta get back out there. You're gonna be fine, alright? When this is over security will find you, get them to take you to a hospital.” He instructed kindly, touching his less bloody hand to her cheek again. It was always difficult to move on from any patient, but particularly in this case. It had been so long since anyone aside from Sylar had last listened or given him any encouragement in his plight, and he wished wholeheartedly that Lucia's efforts could make everything inside him okay. If only it was that easy. She had tried, though. She had made enough of a difference that Peter cherished it, like a dent in an otherwise impenetrable fortress, and merely saving her life in return didn't feel like enough. It was all he could do though, so with one last check-up of his makeshift-tourniquet he shuffled back from the couch on stiff knees and climbed to his feet.

“Wait.” Lucia's hand shot out at him again, once more grabbing his fingers. “You are... them aren't you? The – the evos from the news?”

At once panic clutched at Peter, his chest constricted and the fresh bruise there throbbed. How did she recognise them?! This was the first time he'd been confronted like this out on the field, and seeing as the reception for his and Sylar's good deeds was still generally mixed in favour, he had no idea how to act or even what to anticipate –

But then that surge of panic receded when the kindly woman squeezed his hand. “Thank you. For all that you are doing.”

Rendered speechless, Peter felt heat flush his cheeks. Her words embraced his heart more than he could possibly express, especially considering she was the first person to thank him and Sylar for their contributions to the world, and even more so because she likely knew this.

His throat strained his voice until it escaped him as nothing more than a deep whisper. “You don't have to thank us.” For the first time, Peter's face warmed into a full, heartfelt smile that brightened his eyes. It was as simple as that, those two little words, to validate all the shit that accompanied devoting his life to this cause. Even though it was an uphill battle, even though at times it was tempting to just throw in the towel, it was the moments like this one that made Peter keep doing what he did. To know he was making a positive impact even to just one person within a crowd of hundreds.

“What is your name?” Lucia asked huskily, watching him like he was the most intriguing thing on the planet.

Peter wanted to tell her. He really did. Instead he just squeezed her hand again before slipping free, nodding at her arm. “Try not to move it too much.” He hesitated for a last, lingering glance to make sure she'd taken his advice, then crept out of the alcove with a light glowing in his chest, one that could withstand the harsh fear and tide of the upcoming battle. Yes, it helped to save one person at a time... but that didn't mean Peter would stop for even one minute while the waiting list before him was endless.

*

What the fuck? The man from the paintings laughed and Sylar could feel his throat move under his palm. He looked over the fucking, too-familiar visage again but it didn't make any more sense than last time. It was _definitely_ the same guy Peter had painted over and over until Sylar was practically dreaming of him: it wasn't a lookalike or a sibling because every single inch of his face was the same – even down to the neatly maintained goatee! There was no way this guy had picked himself up, walked off his bruises and repaired the scorch marks in his suit in order to be all the way over here now. Not even regeneration was capable of that.

“How are you doing this?” He demanded, leaning down over his captive so his face hovered above the other's. It irritated him, this fault in the form of this man's impossible arrival. It was as if one of Sylar's time pieces was missing vital parts but could still tell the time to perfection – it just shouldn't happen! In tandem with his natural curiosity and confusion, the emotionally frayed superhuman might have noticed his core ability leaking through him in order to join the party...

The unmasked man's smirk grew. He was much too calm for this situation and that, too, sent warning bells clanging through Sylar. “Aren't you the one who's supposed to know how things work? You tell me.”

Another lash of confusion slapped across the watchmaker, only serving to disorient him so much more. He'd never met this guy before. How did he know Sylar's ability...?

It was all backwards – the victim trapped against the table wasn't breaking a sweat, whereas the interrogator who held all the power was stripped of his influence. The dark man laughed again, a smug, gravelly sound that matched his smug, gravelly voice. “Yes. I know who you are.”

Sylar narrowed his eyes and flexed his fingers into the guy's throat, trying in vain to mask his flaking vulnerability. Those bells were chiming through him like the alarm back at the oil rig, and as much as Sylar knew he ought to shut this fucker up before he could deal any more damage with his monologue, a carnal part of him needed to _understand_ first.

“They said you were ruthless. Powerful. But that's not what I see.”

Sylar's legs lost feeling, his mind whizzed a mile a minute and he held himself bending over the table with all his weight congregating in his trembling hand. ' _They_ '...? The captive wasn't panicked in the slightest, as if he didn't even care what happened to him next.

“They said you were like me. Someone who's not afraid to hurt people to get what he wants. A killer.”

A growl ripped its way from Sylar's throat without his consent and he curled down further so his nose almost brushed the other man's. He was shaking all over again, fuelled by guilt, disorientation and fury fused together and forcing his hand. “They're _wrong_!” He snarled, and slammed his powerless victim's head down against the table hard enough to knock him out –

But the blow didn't knock him out. No. Instead it shook that self-satisfied look off his face and drew a groan from his lips. Then his whole being fell limp, shuddered, and crumbled into nothing more than a pile of grey dust.

And Sylar's heart stopped.

...SHIT! What the _fuck_?! No! No, NO! Suddenly wracked with tremors, sick to his stomach, he scrambled off the table and backed away from the last trace of what used to be a living human being. All rage evaporated completely, leaving only terror and perplexity in its wake.

What ability did he have that could disintegrate people that he didn't even know about?! It didn't make sense and it chilled him to the bone, the thought – no, the _knowledge –_ that in the instant before that man had disappeared, Sylar hadn't been keeping his powers in check like usual.

He couldn't even think it... after _eight_ _years_ of slow, agonizing redemption he did _not_ just kill someone by _accident_...

Horror and regret threatened to choke him like bile and tears formed in his eyes before he could stop them. It was all so quick, so sudden, and there was nobody to witness it and nobody to comfort him, nothing but the guilt and pain that tore his ribcage to shreds and weakened his knees and –

Everything stopped.

Sylar didn't draw breath. He didn't shake even a millimetre more. Silence was deafening inside this cavern, pressing down on the world worse than it had in a certain nightmare city because even the wind outside had ceased.

For a moment there was nothing at all but this frozen snapshot of time. Until quiet footsteps sounded on the carpet and a young time-traveller with his hair in his face and bloody handprints smeared over his shirt rounded the far end of the slot machines.

*

Peter breathed easier at setting eyes on Sylar. He recognised the man instantly even from afar, the lines of his lean form too ingrained in his consciousness by now. Even from here the empath could tell that he was alive and well, thank god (and lacking in any sign that he'd had to rely on regeneration to be so). He'd gotten here just in time it seemed: two more masked assailants up ahead were caught in the process of trying to sneak up on the most powerful man in the world, and Peter was sure he'd just spared them some pretty nasty boo-boos.

He crossed the frozen world almost contently. It was impossible not to feel at peace when slipping between the forbidden sheets of time on any day, but reuniting with his friend was even more comforting than usual after his heart to heart with Lucia had left his vulnerabilities raw and seeking solace. With everything still, everything silent, and himself and Sylar about to finally obtain the upper hand in the scenario, Peter just couldn't help but feel more relaxed.

That was, until he finally noted the other man's expression.

“Sylar...?” He breathed, even though nobody could hear him. Concerned, he jogged the last few steps until he reached his friend's side.

Any semblance of a peaceful air faded entirely upon closer inspection of the man's twisted eyebrows, open mouth and haunted, glistening eyes. He was staring at his hands as if he was sickened by them, but when Peter checked there seemed to be no injury there. This guy here couldn't possibly have been more different than the tall, strong and imposing figure who had dived single-handedly into a fight against twenty people the last time Peter Petrelli had seen him.

So what the hell had happened in his absence...? Truly worried now, Peter tried his best to wipe Lucia's blood off his hands before taking hold of his companion and preparing to steady his transition out of time.

*

Sylar gasped for breath and was sure he was going to throw up because of what he'd just done – he'd _hurt_! He'd _killed_! It was all his fault! – then though the blurry haze suddenly there were warm arms around him and a gentle voice crooning into his ear.

“Easy... easy... you're alright, buddy... it's okay...”

It took a moment for Sylar to realise that everything was still and quiet and that time had stopped around him. Then again he felt sick. Ugly. Filthy. And unmeasurably grateful to see Peter. He wanted to burst into poisonous tears and tried to voice his all-consuming sickness, but nothing came out even when he moved his lips. The best he could do was grab a fistful of the empath's sleeve and blink rapidly at the person-shaped coating of dust that was still powdered across the games table.

“What happened?” Peter coaxed quietly. His hand was steady against Sylar's back and his eyes burned into his face after regarding the leftovers of the man from the paintings. “Sylar? Tell me what happened.”

“I – I dunno! I dunno what happened! He just... _I_ just...”

“What're you talking about?” Again, Peter followed the watchmaker's line of sight before returning more intensely than before. When Sylar tried to struggle the little man adjusted himself toe to toe with him, two hands appeared on his shoulders and then worried, hazel eyes blocked the rest of the scene from Sylar's view. “Hey, calm down, alright? Talk to me.”

“...It's...”

Truly shaken, he tried his best to haul himself back together. He ducked out of Peter's hold, cleared his throat and inched closer to the table, dragging the empath along with him by the arm. He couldn't afford to let go of him in case he never came back once he heard... once he _knew_.

“It was him. The guy from the paintings – he – he was there and then he wasn't, he was _fine_... I didn't do anything... I didn't mean to...”

“What?”

*

Chills crawled over Peter's skin like a thousand tiny insects. So Sylar was saying _he_ did this? It spawned connotations he didn't even want to consider on his friend's behalf.

With a nasty feeling settling in the pit of his stomach, Peter finally realised what that dust used to be. _Who_ it used to be. Trying not to overreact, he cast his eyes over the stuff while Sylar continued to mumble and tug his already ruined shirt sleeve out of shape. What kind of ability could even _do_ this to someone?! Who could just disappear like that without teleporting?! Peter couldn't recall ever encountering such a thing before! ...Unless...

With difficulty, he managed to disentangle himself from Sylar's grasp and hurried over to the two would-be-sneaky gunmen. Hope gurgling in his chest, he fumbled with the first one's mask to find –

*

“He's a duplicator!”

Sylar was wrenched out of thoughts of sin and hell and floating grey dust by Peter's declaration. His head snapped up to see the little man holding two empty masks in his hand, standing between... god fucking damn it!

Crossing back to Sylar with eyes scanning every inch of his face, Peter continued. “Like that guy in Matt's basement.” Both men once more dropped their gaze onto the remnant of a clone dirtying the games table. Oh, thank god...

Relief drenched Sylar like a bucket of cool water on a sweltering summer's day. He understood now, the pieces clicked into place and all at once he was more grateful than he could ever say. Feeling returned slowly to his limbs in angry pins and needles as he shook himself out of his dazed stupor. Licking dry lips, he didn't meet Peter's eyes. He could tell that the empath knew exactly what had just happened to him, what he had just experienced, and while the comfort wasn't unwelcome, now was _not_ the time or place for Sylar to lose his head or let embarrassment best him.

So he distanced himself from Peter by dragging his numb feet over to the other duplicates. “Oh... That explains a lot, actually.” He mumbled. There it was as plain as day: the target _was_ a duplicating man. Which meant that Sylar hadn't just broken his no-murdering streak. Suddenly he felt stupid for getting into such a state when the answer seemed painfully obvious in hindsight, but the thought of what might have been was still echoing through him deeper than he would have imagined.

Just looking at the duplicator's uncovered, frozen face made Sylar want to punch him for causing such a scare. He refrained though, just barely.

“How do we take them all down?” Peter appeared again at his shoulder, as if unwilling to stay more than two steps away from his fragile friend. Sylar appreciated this. And the fact that Peter was valiantly trying to continue with the mission without stopping for a therapy session.

“We find the prime.” He said almost automatically, voice hollow. It was as if this plan had been just waiting to announce itself to him without Sylar's own knowledge, but he had to admit that the logic was sound. Why round up nine more bad guys when attacking the source would take them all down? Still slightly stunned, he went through the motions with a methodical ease that came to him naturally.

Sylar called dancing veins of white blue light to crawl above and around his hand, the electrical crackling suddenly very loud in the otherwise silent world. He was reaching his ability towards the first clone's shoulder when Peter finally caught onto the plan at a winning pace.

“Wait -” He snapped, fingers grabbing onto Sylar's arm and smudging bloody prints over the good fabric. It should have annoyed him, but instead that small bit of normalcy (Peter being shocked at electrocuting even a shooter, and his utter disregard for formal wear) helped to recall more of Sylar's natural state of mind.

He peered down with a curved eyebrow, faking more superiority than he truly felt. Displaying authority had always been good for knocking some sense back into him. “We only have to hurt them enough to get rid of them, Peter. If it's the real him it won't kill him, and the others... they won't even feel it.” He said it matter-of-factly, secretly hoping that last was true.

He waited, watching the other man's face struggle with this decision before his grip slipped away. Sylar hesitated briefly (just making sure Peter was done with his moral dilemma and not at all because he needed a moment himself) before grabbing a handful of the clone's shoulder and sending currents of electricity ripping through him, stronger than any of his previous attacks so far. He pretended it didn't make him feel ill to watch the guy float to the floor as nothing more than a pile of dust, or more so for the second one.

“Come on...” Peter said quietly, cupping Sylar's elbow and guiding him away from the chilling sight of three smoking piles of dust. Rationally, the watchmaker knew the duplicates weren't real. He hadn't had an issue dealing with the ones from the Sullivan Brother's Carnival way back when, and this was no different than that! Or at least, it _shouldn't_ have felt any different.

Sylar meekly allowed his companion to lead him on through the games floor, the colours suddenly poking too brightly at his eyes, the room suddenly stretching out for miles. He tried but failed to claw back the passion driving his mission from earlier, and instead found himself wishing they could just get the job done as simply as possible and call it a day.

*

Of course the cashier cage was the furthest point in the room.

Here, too, everything was caught mid-action, a living photograph captured in the faintest breath between seconds. On such a quiet afternoon at the Linderman Casino there weren't many staff members behind the desk: only three people were huddled on the floor with their hands over their heads, and one woman was frozen midway through a sob as she pushed money through the mesh of the cage that was supposed to keep her safe. Notes had fluttered to a stop in the air, a green paper arc splayed towards another tall, dark and intimidating figure and his oh-so-familiar choice of weapon.

Silently, unnoticed by all, Peter and Sylar approached the assailant with raw affliction etched upon both faces. The former paramedic felt dislike roil through him anew upon reaching his destination, taking in the gunman's arrogant stance and the cashier's terror. The son of a bitch didn't even look conflicted.

Clenching his jaw, he pried the gun from the guy's clutches and dropped it to the carpet at the side, then locked eyes with Sylar across the statue. Neither of them spoke because there was nothing more to say, just a job that needed doing. Peter felt his heart clench tighter for his friend when he saw the slight tremor in his hand before electricity cloaked it. He wished he could offer to share the burden without ruining the plan or stranding them in time. He wished he could ease the alarm from the first unmasked duplicator without Sylar second-guessing himself anyway.

Peter swallowed the uncomfortable lump in his throat when the flickering ability was pressed to this duplicator's shoulder.

This was the point when all the others had disappeared. When dust had floated to the floor and the duo had shouldered their reservations and moved on in desperate hopes that there really _was_ a prime to find after all. But this time, when Elle Bishop's favourite teasing device zapped the target, all that happened was that his good suit jacket was adorned by a charred, slightly smoking handprint.

*

Sylar doubted he'd imagined Peter's relieved exhalation sounding in time with his own. Okay, good. So this was the end of it. Just as well, because Charles' penthouse and luxury bathtub had never seemed so appealing. Even though Sylar knew all the soap in the world couldn't cleanse the grime of history away.

Now that they had reached the final goal, he took his time to absorb the scenario in its entirety. It was clear almost right away that the duplicating man had _not_ thought this through well. Firstly: the prime put himself in the most obvious position in the field; secondly: he attempted to hold up a cashier's desk when the casino was far below full; and thirdly: he had no bag or suitable means of either getting or transporting large amounts of cash after a robbery.

The whole thing was very haphazardly staged, now that Sylar examined it. A detective peering over his crime scene, he pieced together the clues to try to form a picture of the scenario. Everything about the duplicator just irked Sylar. Why was it that nothing about him seemed to make sense? Why did he choose to rob a dwindling casino when in _Las Vegas_ of all places?! Why did he have the gun and outfit of a formidable bad guy, yet fumble his way around as if he was making it all up as he went along...? He clearly wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed.

Clearing his throat, Sylar shook himself and feigned more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary. “Alright, Peter: search Einstein for anything informative, and I'll find something to restrain him with...”

“Right.”

Sylar left Peter to his own devices with the prime, and crossed to what looked like yet _another_ fallen security guard. Poor schmuck. Judging by his holstered weapon he had no idea what hit him. Sylar crouched next to the unconscious man, rolling him over carefully in search of handcuffs or another restraining device, but faltered when his fingers brushed –

“Sylar...”

*

Peter grit his teeth and fished the incriminating item out of the duplicator's inside pocket. He knew what it was upon first glance. He'd recognise that abstract, red-hued “R” anywhere by now. Frowning, he turned to share his findings with his partner in crime.

An identity badge: M.F. Harris. Renautas.

His grim expression was mirrored on Sylar's face, which wasn't unexpected. What was, however, was the matching Renautas ID badge recovered from the unconscious “security guard”. Confusion curled itself around the smaller man slowly as Sylar returned to his side, spinning handcuffs on his forefinger.

“One of us, one of them?” Peter asked, struggling to keep up with this new, disconcerting information. “They were working together?” So it wasn't just Angela breaking the new company's “honourable” rules by recruiting Francis Culp. There went _that_ flimsy hope. Clearly Renautas weren't just kidnapping evos anymore, as if that wasn't bad enough... “To – what, though? Rob a casino? Why would they even do that?”

*

Despite himself, Sylar couldn't help but latch onto Peter's glacial thought process as something familiar and reassuring. He huffed out a tiny laugh as he _clicked_ one cuff around Harris Prime's frozen, outstretched wrist. “I don't think our friends here were exactly seeing eye-to-eye. Here, help me with him...”

Together, the men worked to push the static, dead weight of their bulky captive across the carpet. They grunted with the effort, Sylar resisting the urge to just shove and roll the guy like a cut log, until the empty cuff snicked shut around one of the bars of the cashier cage.

Sylar fixed his good shirt while Peter swiped his hair out his face and turned questioning eyes to him, breathing heavily. “So – what does that mean? He defected?”

“Well I don't think he was here on a work night out, do you? He must've turned on the others.”

Again, the former villain swept his gaze around the scene, his mind stroking over everything he'd encountered so far within this room. All security were down before the first gunshot or duplicates occurred: that meant the other Renautas agents were in on it. But none of them – although they'd definitely been on the scene enough to have accompanied the prime all the way to the hold up point – had been involved in the rounding up or scaring of civilians, or at least none that Sylar had come across: which meant that Harris had taken out his teammates too. That little detail _probably_ wasn't part of the original plan. Factoring in his hastily prepared looting, it was most likely the duplicator's actions had just been a spontaneous act of rebellion mid-mission. But that still didn't account for a Renautas team lurking in Linderman's casino of all places during an afternoon shift.

Unless they _knew_ that something was going to happen. Unless they were _waiting_ for someone to show up...

“It was a trap.” Peter realised, affronted.

“Yes. It was a trap.” Sylar concurred, hating that the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. So Bennet's latest plan had failed. Technically. But the watchmaker couldn't help but feel he hadn't emerged from this attempt unscathed.

He and Peter were as safe as they could ever possibly be right now – they technically didn't even _exist_ in time at the moment – but still somehow he thought he could feel gazes upon him. Angry gazes. Disembodied gazes. _Knowing_ gazes.

They'd wandered far from the remains of the first revealed clone, yet Sylar's vision could pinpoint the exact location beyond the forest of machines and tables. He couldn't shake the harrowing sensation of being absolutely _certain_ that he'd killed again... the clamminess clung to him like dust from the victim itself, no matter how many others he'd disposed of after. It wasn't even the fact that he'd dissolved mindless duplicates of a man who didn't suffer from their extermination that was freaking him out, still. It was the unmistakeable _dawning_ that, even though he didn't _want_ to... technically, Sylar _could_ , potentially, still murder.

His abilities were gifts. Weapons. Abominations. They were wonderful and they were awful. They were a part of his anatomy, welded to his core like sinew to bone, and even if he didn't call on them... they were still _there_. All it took was one wrong move, one _second_ of distraction by a duplicating moron to cause a lapse in control and everything could be ruined.

Sylar shivered and rubbed at his untimely goosebumps, looking sightlessly out over the expanse of the games floor. It had only been a clone. Not a person. It hadn't been murder. Nobody had _died,_ thank god. But for the first time since embarking on his very first mission with Peter by his side, the awareness was _there_...

That maybe next time he slipped up, he wouldn't be so lucky.

*

A trap. A goddamned _trap!_ Feeling his chest expand in defensiveness, Peter glared at the duplicating man from up close, outraged by everything he'd done in their name. Suddenly he remembered what his first attacker had said, and this time it made sense. ' _You're not even worth all this..._ '

Could Noah stoop any lower in his attempts to round them up?! Maybe if he put as much time into the tragedies that Peter and Sylar were stopping as he wasted in trying to catch them, then there wouldn't be any tragedies left to worry about! Peter seethed, chewing his tongue so hard it was painful. He was just so _angry_ at Noah, and just fucking _wished_ the guy could put a stop to his relentless tail! Now it was beyond annoying, insulting and demoralising – now it was getting _dangerous_! Not just to himself and Sylar, no, but to innocent civilians caught in the crossfire! Shit. Even the act of helping Lucia was rendered null and void, because now Peter realised that he was inadvertently responsible for her wound and any others that might have been sustained during the event that was crafted to result in his capture!

God, he wanted to punch Noah right in the horn rims. He wanted to shout at him to stop being so careless, and to finally throw a wrench in the gears of his operation before something truly perilous came to pass because of it! There was no way that Peter and Sylar's relationship was worth this much effort to outsiders. No way. Sure, none of them approved, they all thought Peter had cracked or worse, but that was _not_ a justifiable excuse! It was probably just fucking _pride_ keeping Mr Bennet's wheels oiled and spinning, but what pride that would endanger others was even worth preserving in the first place...?!

He was far from ready to go home for a quiet night of leftovers, TV and nightmares, but for now there was nothing else to be done. Sure, he'd got himself all worked up for a fight for justice, but they'd already apprehended the bad guy here. They'd practically left him gift-wrapped to be found by his parent corporation, and now the heroes had done their duty and had no more business here.

“We'd better get back.” He said lowly, tearing his gaze from Harris Prime.

“...Yes...”

Teleporting while in this frame of mind would probably end up with them in the middle of the stone age or something, so Peter fought to compose himself and breathe out all the venom coursing inside. Which was astoundingly easier to do once he turned his attention to his friend at his side.

Sylar still looked shaken from before, was still acting weird, and Peter's heart ached for the guy. He could actually _feel_ how bad a scare that had been, and suddenly Noah Bennet was the last thing on this empathetic man's mind.

“Hey...” He murmured, shuffling closer to the recovering killer “You alright?” He asked, slipping a hand onto the centre of Sylar's back. It wasn't much, and it certainly wouldn't make everything better, but if Peter's caring instincts were correct and Sylar was possibly about to succumb to his experience, then at least a small comfort was better than none at all.

He watched with a knot in his throat as his usually so emotionally maintained ally jumped at the touch. Sylar blinked round eyes before visibly hauling himself back into one piece. He smiled and Peter accepted the effort although the gesture itself wouldn't fool anyone.

“I'm fine.” There was a pause, as if he was trying to think of a joke or a witty one liner to hammer that point home, but came up with nothing. “Lets just go home.”

Peter nodded, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. There would be time to return to this later if Sylar wanted to. And if not, then Peter would oblige and let it lie. “Okay.”

Home. It probably was the best remedy for a mission of this calibre. But somehow Peter doubted Charles' penthouse with its firewood smell and bright windows would welcome them in as warmly as it had after yesterday's successful outing.

He held his hand out, palm up, but again the taller man was more engrossed in the distant table on which he'd really thought he'd killed someone. The bruise devouring Peter's ribs twinged again.

“Sylar.” He prompted gently, unwilling to just grab the guy and leave if he wasn't quite ready to go.

This time when Sylar turned back, he didn't look at Peter or bother with pretences or fake smiles. His forehead was furrowed and his eyes heavy, and when his hand grasped Peter's it was cold and sweaty. The teleporter waited for another moment, stole another pocket of endless time, but his friend didn't do or say anything to protest their departure. So finally he closed his eyes and concentrated.

Squeezing Sylar's fingers, he carried them both away from this place while commanding the sands of time to flow freely once more.

When the casino burst back into action – the paper notes completed their fluttering descent to the ground; the sole assailant found himself suddenly shackled to the cage, weaponless and unable to escape; and the dizzy-headed Renautas agents climbed to their feet to find the place unharmed – the two time travellers who had protected it all were gone. As if they'd never been there at all.

***

So much for the secret weapon.

The only outward sign that Mr Bennet was pissed off was that he rubbed at his eyes beneath his glasses, while his knuckles whitened around the tablet in his other hand. Aside from this, he was confident that the swearing tantrum inside, begging to spill forth, was imperceptible to the Renautas guards nearby.

He stood alone in the concrete corridor, divided from the disconcerting scene by a large window of bulletproof glass. It was dark down here despite sickly overhead lighting and a glowing number 6 mounted on the wall. The next level down... one step deeper into the ground, one step deeper into classified matters.

Strangely, Noah didn't feel like he was standing in the bowels of his old corporation. He could feel the new owner's touch wiping away the dust and oiling the rusty hinges of the building... i.e. overriding the character of the place that he had come to know and love. The rebuild of Primatech's old headquarters as a Renautas facility was favourable, of course. But it wasn't only a job of cleaning up the exploded walls burned cinder left behind by Meredith Gordon. No. It was a _rebirth._ One that Noah was beginning to feel he had no say in whatsoever.

His horn-rimmed glasses glinted coldly as he watched his failed new recruit be shepherded into his cell, then the guards set about ensuring there were no potential sharp objects for M.F. Harris to summon more of his buddies with.

“Now why'd you have to go and pull a stunt like that...?” He mumbled at Harris wistfully, disappointment striking him all over again.

Damn him.

Money always did it. Money and the promise of safety (or, alternatively, the threat of danger should they disobey), and money had been promised in spades to this low-life when they'd scooped him off the streets, along with quick ascension through the ranks and a shiny new badge to pin to his chest. Everything at the casino had been set out to perfection: cause enough of a stir to draw the targets, have agents waiting in the wings and as many expendable duplicates as it could possibly take to overthrow Peter and Sylar... it would have worked. Noah _knew_ it would have worked. He'd gone over almost everything. But the one thing he hadn't been counting on was his pawn forming a mind of his own and thinking he could back out of their arrangement with a gun he couldn't use properly and a few thousand dollars in stolen cash.

As if he could escape Renautas so easily... as if he could escape the circumstance of his own species. No innocents were supposed to get hurt – wasn't that the whole point of rounding up the two most dangerous evos?! – but of course now there were injured civilians to add to Noah's overladen conscience. He felt ridiculous for having actually felt _positive_ about this plan earlier... what a gutting let down.

He locked eyes with Harris through the glass wall, his steely glare rivalled spectacularly by the evo who clearly didn't want to be here anymore. Pity it was too late to do anything about that.

At least _some_ good news had made its way to Noah today: Angela's “old friend” had finally got his finger out and showed up for duty. A familiar face was welcome amongst these old halls, Noah had to admit, but the accompanying attitude wasn't. However, right now this tired, miserable agent needed all the help he could get for his undertaking. He needed more than just one star player in his arsenal.

Agent Stevens' clumsy footsteps approached before the guy himself appeared at Noah's side, wheezing slightly. The co-workers stood together, overlooking their dashed hopes in the form of the duplicating man, both left to salvage the stinking shit that they'd stirred up together. For a second Noah envied his subordinate and his alibi of simply being a tech assistant. He wished _he_ could pass the blame onto someone of a superior rank, but gone were the days...

Stevens checked over a document on the shining screen of his tablet, gracefully neglecting the mess of Noah's latest bright idea. “Are we not sending him to the lab with the others?”

Mr Bennet ground out a sigh. This bruise on his ego was still a fresh one. “No. Erica wants him here. She insisted he's to be trained up then put back out on the field... she thinks he has “potential”.”

Stevens' tone perfectly recaptured the surprise and unease that had hit Noah when he'd been given the order. “And what do _you_ think?”

Hmmm... what did Noah think about it? Maybe that Harris should take the fall for his disobedience; that he shouldn't be spared the treatment that lesser evos had endured just because the boss fancied his ability by her side; that he should face the consequences for letting Peter Petrelli and Sylar slip through his fingers and making Noah look like a fool yet _again!_ Just the idea of how many more drawings of a future come to pass that now needed to be shifted over to the “failure” pile set Noah's teeth on edge.

There was a lot he could have said in response to Stevens' query. There was a lot he could have said in response to Erica Kravid's shark-like smile when she'd sent him on his way to babysit his latest mistake. But Noah Bennet had never been one to crack a light about his true feelings when working.

“...I think I need more allies I can trust. I think I need a partner on the field who's capable. Who knows exactly how the game is played.”

Since when did Noah fall into the category of mindless minion? Following orders and being bossed about were two _very_ different things, and lately Erica was really pushing the divide. So she could change the rules on a whim, could she? Screw about with Noah's itinerary and job description however she saw fit to further humiliate him with his perceived negligence?

For there were _far_ too many instances of that now. Literally a whole wall of them next door like a goddamned art gallery on proud display. This was beyond ridiculous, and if Harris' insubordination had been good for anything, it was in giving Noah the guts to finally step out on his own to get the job done on _his_ terms. Because if Erica was kissing goodbye to the rules outlined in Noah's job description, then he saw no reason why he couldn't take her up on her own game.

“See if you can set up a meeting.” He drawled, voiding the “unauthorised” warning branded across the document on his tablet screen. Agent Stevens let out a blatant hum of appreciation when Noah passed him the device and he saw who's record was on display.

“It would be my pleasure...”

Mr Bennet rubbed at his itchy eyes again as Stevens departed. He was left alone with only his regrets, desperate hopes, and the disgraced duplicator in the depths of Level 6, Renautas, Primatech Headquarters, Odessa.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! In this chapter I wanted to explore a more introspective slant on a mission, which is why we get more of our boys' thoughts and feelings in quieter moments over witnessing every moment of epic Sylar butt-kicking action hehe ^.^
> 
> I wish there didn't have to be a break between part 1 and 2 of the casino scene, but I definitely think it was for the best to split those chapters in terms of word count, right?! Hope you think this was worth the wait, anyway X) (Btw M.F. Harris is a character in Heroes Reborn. I take no credit for creating him, just for incorporating him into the story ^.^)
> 
> Please go and check out my new fan art for this story if you haven't already, done in collaboration with Yajanele, who coloured the piece beautifully! If you've stuck with me this far into the story then I'm sure you'll recognise the scene ^.^ http://archiveofourown.org/works/10701150/chapters/24288072


	14. The Show Must Go On

“You did good today.”

Sylar's shoulders stiffened. He tore his gaze from the stream of cars passing below, glancing back to where Peter was wandering over with a steaming mug in each hand. He was dressed in a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, smiling gently from behind wet hair that was now well and truly back to its natural, floppy state. While the construct was generally a wholesome one, Sylar saw right through the interrogation for what it truly was.

He dropped his eyeline back over the side of the building, crossing his arms against the slight chill and leaning his shoulder against the angelic sculpture that was the only thing dividing him from an endless stretch of open air. It was a long way down.

“Funny. That's not what you used to call it.”

Shivering slightly within his own fresh nightwear, Sylar still didn't feel clean. Even though he'd rubbed his skin raw with as many soaps as he could get his hands on, today's mission was stubbornly ingrained into his pores.

*

Peter's gut squirmed at the sight: the silhouette of a lone man, empty pigeon cages and an ornate stone carving lit by the backlight of the city that never sleeps. He hadn't seen much of Sylar in the few hours since they'd teleported back here, and not through his own choice. It was saddening, although unsurprising, to see the guy was still as laden with guilt as he had been back in the casino. Peter tried to hide sorrow from his face as he made his way to the low wall encircling the rooftop.

It was dark atop Charles Devaux's building, that time of night that cast up memories of heartbreak and training and long lost allies. That was the past, though. Distant history. And so much had changed since those days.

Trying not to feel so nervous, Peter set a mug of rich coffee down beside Sylar, shrugging. “I didn't think you'd be able to sleep either so... what the hell, right?” He then pretended to join him in watching over the city, even though his attention was focused solely on the shaken man at his side.

Despite the connotations of it, and even the events of the day, somehow Peter couldn't deny the beauty of this place. The rooftop was eroding slightly, abandoned since the Company had stopped using it and Claude had disappeared for good, but there was still something special about it that even neglect couldn't hide.

Peter blew on his burning coffee but didn't take a sip. Sylar hadn't even touched his. It was never a good sign when he passed up anything edible.

“...You didn't kill him.” Peter said quietly, sturdily, giving in and looking directly at the watchmaker's troubled face. “You stopped him before he could hurt more innocent people.”

*

Sylar tensed at those words and fought not to close his eyes in pain. It was just as difficult to avoid Peter's probing gaze and instead keep his eyes ahead, or above, or below, or anywhere that wasn't in line with the man. He knew he was ridiculously transparent anyway, and that the empath was already attune to his strife, but it was easier to keep it together when he could at least pretend to hold onto a scrap of poise.

The rooftop sculpture dug into his shoulder, and he watched the tendrils of steam rising from the mug on the wall that Peter had brought him – his favourite mug, Sylar noted, filled with coffee that looked to be exactly the way he liked it. This little man really did know him. But of course he would, them having spent five years in purgatory locked together, right? Five years that Sylar had come to think of as the five most important in his life, along with believing going to Matt for help that day was the best mistake he'd ever made... But now he wasn't so sure. What was the point of enduring all that agony, every day, every hour, every minute of painful redemption if it hadn't even made a difference?

“...For a moment back there... I _really_ believed I'd...”

“But you _didn't_.”

“I know.” Telling himself not to be so juvenile, Sylar composed his features as best as he could and turned what he hoped was only a wistful expression to his friend. “But it could've happened just as easily.”

Peter was quiet, his lips tight and eyes rich with understanding as Sylar worked on how to express himself without giving in to the urge to cry. It wasn't that he couldn't justify his actions – Peter was right: he'd taken down a bad guy to save innocents. It wasn't like one of said innocents had been caught in the crossfire, thank god. But it had almost come at the price of an unwelcome, poisonous act that clung to Sylar like the memory of an old nightmare he couldn't seem to shake. One which he had been trying to outrun for almost a decade. It would be so easy to succumb to the burn behind his eyelids, if only for a temporary relief... but he had to remain calm. Clear-headed. Because there was still a job to do and he couldn't just turn his back on it now that things were suddenly going to become even more difficult.

“I've been so reckless, Peter.” He laughed hollowly, helplessly, averting his eyes yet again to the millions of lights spanning the city like stars. “I mean, who the hell did I think I was kidding? I'm _dangerous_ , and I can't just pretend it's not an issue while we're out there trying to do _good_ in the world...”

“Hey, no, don't you do that.” Peter dropped his coffee to the wall with a soft _clunk_ and pulled Sylar around to face him by the arm. “You've been amazing out there – just think of all the people you've helped since the carnival!” He looked upset, Sylar hated to see, but the intelligent man knew the emotion wasn't directed at him. Peter drew in a deep breath, and his next words were laced with more quiet resolve than before. “Yeah, you're right. You _are_ dangerous. But we've known that all along. It doesn't change anything, it only means that you _could_ do bad things... not that you _will_.”

*

Peter's fingers kneaded Sylar's upper arm by themselves, willing courage to form out of nothing and infiltrate both men.

He felt awful. He wished he could magically make this okay. He wished that Sylar could be as content and fulfilled as he had been during dinner, that he hadn't had to hold the fort all by himself while Peter played nurse on the sidelines and spilled his feelings to a complete stranger over the one person who'd stuck by him through hell and back. He shouldn't have stayed so long with Lucia. He should've just fixed up her arm as quickly as possible and gone to help Sylar, instead of being so selfish in the middle of a mission. If he'd done his job better then Sylar wouldn't have had the chance to think he'd killed someone: if Peter had done his duty and moved on; had fought alongside his friend; or had even just stopped time like he was supposed to do in the first place then maybe he could have prevented this from happening?

Sylar tried to force a short-lived smile, one that was genuinely grateful but couldn't last. “Harris, he...” He faded off and licked his lips, dipping his head and hiding closed eyes under a furrowed brow. “I _knew_ what he was feeling, Peter. I _remembered_ it. It was too... familiar, too recent...” Peter softened his hold on the man's arm when Sylar threatened to choke up. “And I hated that. I _hated_ it! I – I wish I could've...!” He paused to breathe out deeply, and all the passion faded from his gentle voice until it remained nothing but bruised. “I just don't want to be that person anymore.”

Sometimes it was so easy for Peter to disassociate the murderer from his friend. Sometimes he couldn't even see any trace of the man who used to exist within Sylar. They were such different people, so much effort had been invested into that transformation... but he could only imagine what Sylar was going through at this moment, to imagine all his hard work unravelling before his eyes.

There was too much to consider after today's adventure, too much to feel, but right then every emotion but empathy drained away from Peter's bleeding heart. Noah, Claire, Angela, Renautas, Lucia, even M.F.Harris could wait for now.

Physically hurting on his friend's behalf, the empath stepped close enough to smell multiple different soaps upon Sylar's skin. He stroked his hand up the taller man's shoulder and into his drying hair, cradling the back of his head in true Petrelli fashion. Heart shining through his features, he had to work to expel more than a whisper from his throat that wouldn't be stolen by the sounds of traffic below.

“Sylar? Listen to me.”

The other man did, averting shining eyes over the city that reflected the view like glass. Even though regeneration had now healed his bruised ribs, Peter would swear they fractured all over again.

“You're _not_ that person anymore.” He insisted softly. “All that's behind us now, I _watched_ you change. And the fact you're getting so cut up about this _proves_ that. All the things you did? Yeah, they happened, but that doesn't matter anymore. We can't change that and it'll never go away. What matters is us, here, now. What we're doing _now_.” He let his hand drift around closer to Sylar's face, hovering millimetres from heated skin. “Okay? Try not to let Noah get into your head, bud. That's what he wants.” Sylar finally met his pleading gaze and Peter smiled weakly for him for as long as he could sustain it. “Don't let them win.”

*

The night was warm and the slight breeze pleasant, but Sylar shivered again despite this. Peter's hand wasn't even touching his cheek but he could still feel the intensity of his palm and eyes feeding life into this killer's wizened heart. He needed this. He needed to hear the words and he craved the compassion: two novelties he had never known in his past life. He recalled the many times they'd rehearsed this routine of talking each other down from the ledge; when they were the only two people in the world and Peter was the guiding light at the end of the tunnel; and remembered again how lucky they were to have even made it this far.

Sylar wanted to capture and gift how much he appreciated the man's efforts to redeem him (even now, how many years in) but he just couldn't get a handle on it. He tried his best to play his part and make this interaction heal his wounds but it didn't.

Peter Petrelli had always been too trusting, too kind. Since he had befriended that kid at the playground who had later pushed him down and stolen his lunch box; to when he'd actually learned to forgive the despicable cretin who had murdered his own brother. Peter's faith in him meant more than Sylar could express, but that did _not_ mean it was justified. All the evidence for this was neatly packaged in everyone else the guy had ever chosen to trust. Look how _that_ had turned out.

“Is there anything I can do?” Peter asked. His eyes were large and honest and captivating. His thumb brushed Sylar's cheekbone for the slightest of moments before his hand dropped back to his shoulder.

For a second the watchmaker seriously considered taking the manipulative route and nodding his head, just so he could indulge in the care he knew Peter would keep bestowing upon him in a heartbeat. It would be nice. It wouldn't fix everything, but it _would_ be cathartic to set down the weight of his chains and take a breather. He'd been carrying the brunt of the world for so long that his back was now bowed by it, and the idea of passing the burden for even a short while was very appealing indeed. It _would_ be nice, even though he didn't deserve it. It would also be incredibly selfish while Peter was so fragile, himself.

In the dusty darkness Sylar could still make out the look on the other man's face: a look that was very similar to what Sylar had been feeling for _him_ recently. Concern. Worry. Hopelessness. Searching for any attempt to make it better... They were both such hypocrites. Such useless, whiny crybabies who were unable to help themselves, let alone each other! But at least that didn't stop them from trying. It would _not_ stop Sylar from trying.

Consciously pulling himself back together for the sake of their never ending mission, and Peter's many issues, he tried to blink back the burn in his eyes before it could spill over and acted like the grown man he damn well should be by now.

“No.” He said quietly, gathering strength to his shaky voice. “Nothing you're not already doing. Just stay. With me. Help me keep trying to make the world a better place.” This time when he smiled it was real although it was small.

*

Peter could tell that his friend was merely ripping this thread into yet another loose end to deal with later, but he could respect and identify too well with the desire to carry on with their duty in the face of pain. The job was far from over, and tomorrow would only bring more issues needing seen to. It wasn't like they could call in a sick day, after all, not when there were people out there who needed them. No matter how much these heroes suffered the world would keep turning, Renautas would keep hunting, and the show must always go on.

But that didn't mean Peter liked it. It was one thing when _he_ was the one hurting on the inside, and another altogether when someone else was suffering in silence. He could have pressed the matter further. He could have stayed and talked all night until he was more certain that Sylar believed his assurances. Instead he just rubbed the other man's shoulder gently, his palm tickled by soft t-shirt fabric.

“I'm not going anywhere.”

There was a fraction of a second where Sylar seemed to drop his shields, a moment when he nearly leaned into the touch. But then he ducked back with handcrafted nonchalance, letting the night's air leak between them.

He cleared his throat. “Not that this hasn't been _fun_ , but I think we should get some sleep, don't you?” Peter blinked at the sudden change of attitude. He could physically _see_ the pretence encasing the weeping tenderness hiding within his friend. Hands in his pyjama pockets, Sylar backed towards the open door leading into the building, a faint shade of apology touching his face. “It's been a long day, Peter... catch you in the morning, alright?”

Trying not to feel so hurt at the sudden dismissal, the empath just watched as Sylar was engulfed by flowing white curtains within the span of a few, long-legged strides. He sighed softly. “Alright.”

It was barely audible, far too late for his agreement to even make a difference. He would give Sylar the space he clearly needed, even though he hated the thought of it when the man was in pain. Hell – when Peter, himself, was in pain! However, tomorrow was a new day. A new mission. Maybe by then Sylar would have had time to let his words sink in? He deeply hoped so.

Peter Petrelli turned to face the open world again, pressing his hands to the smooth stone of the wall and allowing the night's breeze to stroke his face and hair with touches that were supposed to be soothing. A door closed beyond the curtains. And then he was left alone on this fateful rooftop, accompanied only by the rest of the city playing out without him and the two cooling mugs of coffee sitting side by side on the wall.

***

Central Park was bathed under gorgeous, crisp sunlight, beaming proudly from a cloudless turquoise sky as baby leaves grew in the trees and flowers bloomed all around. Bees had awakened for the season and birds were singing overhead, drowned out by the hubbub of tourists and New Yorkers alike who had congregated to enjoy the heat.

Spring was finally blossoming into the early days of summer, and it seemed not one person in the city was going to waste such a novelty, as everyone was out with their children and partners and dogs, laughing or lounging or kissing in the grass. It was humbling just to be a part of this. This was life. This was precious. This was definitely worth fighting for.

Yet, unseen by any who looked for it, a mini storm cloud threatened to break over the heads of two dark-haired men hiding in the cover of the trees. Peter and Sylar walked silently side by side beneath the patchwork shade of leaves, carefully maintaining a distance from the rest of the city-dwellers. It was probably a good idea to keep to themselves when the news had spent all night and morning rather unfavourably reporting on the evo vigilantes' incident at the Linderman Casino, even if they'd still yet to be identified. However, Sylar had to admit that he was grateful for the distance for another reason.

The thought of getting too close to a group of vulnerable, unsuspecting civilians was still unsettling in the light of a new day, but that didn't mean he couldn't watch them from afar. Or that he'd pass up a walk in the sun when Peter had suggested the idea after a rather brooding, quiet morning in the penthouse. Indulging the little man's desire was the least Sylar could do after storming out last night on his kind words and caring touches without even so much as a 'thank you'. He still felt bad about it, along with everything else tarnishing his busy conscience, and had tossed and turned all night under the pressure of his many transgressions: past and present.

He hadn't minded the idea of sitting inside all day today, sulking quietly. But luckily, finding himself outside like this, exposed, after the state he'd gotten himself into hadn't been nearly as bad as Sylar had worried it would be. In fact, it was a strange sensation to brave such a populated area on a day off, free from the shroud of a stolen appearance. Sylar loved the thrill of it. He enjoyed being himself out in the open air, he enjoyed seeing Peter's face beside him where others' might see it too, but most of all he enjoyed the phony sense of _freedom_ that was _just_ outside his grasp. They were still on alert of being discovered, but it was a welcome distraction. Better than nothing. Definitely better than Sylar's plans for the day, anyway.

It wasn't as if acting like normal people out for a day trip would suddenly erase the guilt from the casino, or stop Renautas from hunting them, but sometimes it was just... _nice_ to be reminded why they were doing what they did. Fighting for civilians often got so busy that Sylar didn't have time for, well, the civilians themselves. So it was a novelty to be able to witness them thriving in their natural habitat like this, a comforting ease to yesterday's wound.

Plus, if food wouldn't take Sylar's mind off his worries then nothing would.

*

Chewing his latest fry, Sylar wordlessly offered the box to Peter again. He smiled because he knew how generous these offers were, but this time just shook his head. He'd eaten enough already, but he also knew that Sylar would enjoy the stuff more than he would. It was gratifying to see him finally brightening back into himself, and if Peter had to force-feed the guy fast food in order to make him happy, so be it.

They continued to glide together in perfect step under the trees, while Sylar munched his snack and Peter walked so close to him that their sleeves touched. It had been so long since the pair had just hung out as simply as this. Aside from checking over their shoulders every few steps, it was almost like old times. But even though Peter had suggested a leisurely stroll as an excuse to kick their moping assess into gear, it wasn't purely for the fun of it...

From the outside they looked just like everyone else who'd met a friend to share the afternoon with: they'd returned the occasional smile shot their way and ignored any suspicious glances, and the guy selling the fries had even scowled and grunted at them the same as he did for his other customers, so that was a win, right? But Sylar still hadn't recovered from last night and Peter was trying so hard to put his newly practised talking-to-people thing to good use, in not being so afraid of the bustling crowds. The last mission was heavy on the duo's shoulders, fresh on their consciousnesses, and even when participating in what should have been a beautiful past-time with hundreds of other people, Peter was once again fighting to contain his feelings for Noah Bennet and his cause.

He could barely tear his gaze from the evos and non-specials sharing the park today in harmony. There was a teenage girl over on the grass casually freezing her friends' drinks to grateful response; and there was a father nearby her, throwing his giggling baby into the air with telekinesis to the horror of his frantic wife; meanwhile there were tons of people at all sides that could easily see these abilities in action – but nobody was complaining about it.

A gaggle of schoolgirls passed nearby. Peter counted no less than four pieces of Indestructible Girl merchandise adorning them, not including the dyed blonde hair and cheerleader uniforms. As always, at the thought of his now estranged niece, Peter's heart winced. However, the positive impact she'd had on these girls softened his usual scepticism towards her preaching. Right here, the bullshit love-and-peace-between-all charade that Claire was headlining her press tour with seemed painfully true. Right now, it was almost as if everything really was as okay as she was pretending.

“Shall we?”

Peter ripped his attention back to Sylar, who popped another few fries into his mouth and nodded at a particularly knobbly tree trunk nearby.

They settled down together at the base of the tree, their backs to rough bark and elbows resting on their knees. The stormcloud hovering above them dissipated into more of a fog that hovered nearby, not so heavy but still impossible to ignore. Peter gave in and helped Sylar eat his way through the fries, if only for something to do, as they sat and cast tired eyes over the park.

The spot was lovely: near the pond, subtly set back from the foreground of activities, with the tips of a bridge in sight in the distance. Here they could continue to invisibly observe life as it should be lived, love as it should be loved, and families as they were supposed to be. How many people had sat at this exact tree over its lifetime? Who had admired this view on a sunny day with a blanket and a picnic basket and their friends and family fighting over who got what sandwich? Peter swore he could almost feel the spirits of these unknown people gracing the area. It warmed his heart to witness this slice of time, the park and visitors so pristine that the whole thing could have easily burst into a musical number for a movie. At the same time, it picked at the ever-tender scars inside his chest.

That used to be him. Happy, oblivious, untainted. He'd had a mother who cared for him and a brother who'd always be there for him, and no matter what fight he'd just had with Arthur or which exam he'd just flunked even after busting his gut revising, at the end of the day he could spend time with his loved ones and believe he was loved in return. And then along came superhuman abilities. Closely followed by a Company. And nothing was ever the same again.

All these people here today, the girls, the dad – the baby, even – any one of them could be next on Renautas' hit list and Peter's heart broke for them. How many people woke up today not knowing their world would be ruined by dinnertime? How many people would lose their loved ones, just because of who they were? How many human beings with lives ahead of them would be stripped of that god-given luxury by a power-hungry, greedy organization who worked in the shadows and thought they had the right to commandeer the way of things?

The human/evo dynamic was crumbling more each day, despite Claire's public attempts to prevent the growing disease by pretending there wasn't one, but within this beautiful time capsule you'd never imagine anything other than peace. Peter silently applauded these people for braving the world despite the cracks marring the surface of it, for being so strong as to spit in the face of fear and be themselves, regardless. Human, evo, or otherwise: they all deserved to live free from the constant shadow of terror. They deserved to lie out in the open like today, drinking in the best sunlight and flavour and freedom that the world had to offer, and not to feel guilty about it.

But at any moment armed agents could swoop in and drag someone away from their family, sign them up to a lifetime as a company agent or ship them off to a prison-like confinement (Peter had no doubt Renautas owned one somewhere). He didn't even know what happened to the people who disappeared. The ones he and Sylar hadn't been aware of in order to rescue. He also didn't know exactly _what_ Renautas were recruiting evos off the streets for, but he'd sure as hell bet it wasn't for the purpose of keeping abilities hidden to the world, _à_ la Primatech.

He breathed out slowly, rubbing his hands together to dust off any lingering salt from the fries. “They have no idea what could happen, do they?”

*

Sylar absent-mindedly toyed with the last fry in the box. He, too, was lost in a mass of memories about “happy families” and underground companies, only from two different lives: neither of which felt like they fully belonged to him. “No.” He huffed wistfully. “Look at them: they're so small, so oblivious... vulnerable... I kinda envy them.” He nibbled the end of the fry.

“You –? What?” Peter laughed, turning a surprised look Sylar's way. “ _You_? Envy _them_?” The watchmaker rolled his eyes at Peter's teasing scepticism, glad of the familiarity of the tone to tether him to reality.

“I don't want to be _like_ them. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“I mean I envy their freedom to be special and... well, not have to apologise for it.” Sylar shut himself up with the remainder of the last fry and guiltily watched the short-lived humour slip away from Peter's face.

“Oh. Yeah.” The empath tried to mask his sadness by looking out once again over the wonderfully innocent evos amongst the crowd. In profile his face was almost serene, but Sylar knew him well enough to be fooled. “Would be nice.”

Dammit. The whole reason he'd agreed to this walk was to compensate for blowing off Peter's reassurances last night, but clearly Sylar wasn't doing a good job of that. He wasn't too sure how to proceed. Should he bring up the exchange from the rooftop, thank Peter and pretend it had fixed his problem? It probably wasn't too good an idea though when they were in the presence of other people such as this and emotions had to be carefully monitored.

Instead, without overthinking it, Sylar simply reached over with his unsalted hand and cupped Peter's knee, knocking the other man's arm from its perch. Okay, so it was a clumsy reassurance, but he couldn't pat his back because of the tree and their seating arrangements, and he highly doubted Peter would prefer to hug it out in the grass like the dozens of happy couples strewn around them (Sylar could just imagine the look on his face...!). No, a clumsy reassurance it would have to be.

*

It took a moment before Peter realised what was happening, but when he did it wiped away a good few layers of misery smothering his insides. For the first time since the rooftop last night, he looked upon his friend, and not the self-consciously guarded version of the man. Suddenly he didn't feel quite so alienated from the guy he'd used to be: validated through others' eyes and out of reach across the invisible divide of time.

“Yeah, well.” Sylar shrugged, the corners of his mouth dimpling before a smile hit. “It's no fun when there's no danger involved. We'd get bored after an hour or two...”

The man's hand was large and warm, a sturdy weight that somehow said thank you, sorry, and we're in it together all at once. Peter cherished the touch more than usual after having his own rejected last night. His chest swelled and his eyes crinkled kindly, and he happily sat still without dislodging the palm heating his knee. “Yeah.”

After a shared moment of gratitude, Peter leaned his head back against the tree trunk, looking out over the park through heavy eyelids. He felt a little better; there was no sense to mope over the hand he'd been dealt in life, but that pressure inside his chest didn't stop growing. It only expanded until it could possibly be described as painful. Slowly, he came to recognise the weight, colour and jagged edges of the words building from an idea into a decision, and in turn forming a definitive sentence that he didn't really _want_ to say, but knew he was going to anyway.

It would disturb the settling waters. It might not go down too lightly. Jesus, it was even something Peter had been deliberately avoiding for months, now! Perhaps if Sylar hadn't just said what he did then Peter would have been able to contain it, but he had so he couldn't.

*

Sylar patted Peter's knee a few more times before drawing his hand back, happy to feel the shared sense of understanding encircle them both for the first time all day. He hated it when they were out of sync, even though he solely took the blame this time.

A breeze fluttered by the knobbly tree and lifted the front tendrils of both men's hair, carrying with it the smell of grass, fries and faint cigarette smoke. Sylar shifted from the rough bark of the tree to lie flat in fragrant grass instead, eyes closed, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankle. He took the time to lick the salt from his fingers and absorb this last second of blissful reprieve beside his only friend in the world, because he _knew_ what Peter was going to say before he said it. He could practically taste the words that were colouring the very air around them.

“...I want to go to Renautas.”

The grass tickled Sylar's ears as he shook his head, chuckling hopelessly. He knew this was coming. He still wasn't ready to embrace it. “I know you do.” When he cracked open one eye to peer up at Peter, he saw the guy looked surprised by the ease with which his plan had been accepted. Please. As if he wasn't so transparent that this could never be a surprise.

“I wish we didn't have to, but it makes sense, doesn't it?” Peter insisted, hazel irises misting with resignation. “What we've been doing isn't enough. This way, maybe we can destroy everything Noah has on us, on everyone, before his traps get outta control and _hurt_ someone.”

Sylar brought his gaze to the heavens above, resting both hands across his stomach. It was a glistening, smooth canvas of blue up there. Perfect conditions for flying, now that those lucky ones who could didn't need to hide in clouds. It would be nice to enjoy that someday...

He couldn't deny that the other man's thinking was valid: this was the logical next course of action. Like in dealing with a duplicator, attacking the base was, annoyingly, a better plan than to keep running around the outskirts of the problem. Being good at plans, Sylar had anticipated this one probably long before Peter had. And last night's... change in perspective... was hardly hindering his enthusiasm to get to the root of the whole Renautas issue.

He sighed at the utter recklessness of what he was agreeing to. He could barely even believe he was doing it. “It's not going to be easy.”

Peter spat out a hollow laugh, even though this whole scenario was far from funny. “What? And everything else so far _was_?”

“We're talking about the most advanced technological organisation on the planet, Peter.” He turned a raised eyebrow the empath's way. “You think we can just waltz in the front door and flash fake IDs?”

Peter's mouth fell into a sombre line and his eyes sang with honest determination. “We have to try something.” Oh, how Sylar knew that look. It was his all-heart-and-no-brains-end-up-dead look. It always preceded trouble. Sylar couldn't hate it no matter how much he tried.

The former villain re-arranged his features and stance as to not come across so condescending, leaning up on his elbows in the cool grass. It wasn't Peter's fault that he never thought to plot ahead. “Yes, we can try.”

*

Peter's heart leapt at Sylar's co-operation.

“But we need to do this properly.” The watchmaker continued. “We can't just dive in there unprepared, navigate the place _and_ get out without getting caught. We need a plan, we need help – ideally, someone who knows the place – and we need a miracle to get past all that security.”

Impressed, Peter couldn't help but smile despite the daunting conversation. He'd been preparing to fight for his cause. He'd expected Sylar to politely decline his proposal (at the best case scenario), not to embrace the very real likelihood of such danger and perhaps their toughest operation to date with such cool-headedness – never mind _preparation_. Even that slight detail made the rest of the deathwish mission not seem _as_ terrifying.

Toying with his fingers, Peter dipped his head so his proud expression was hidden from the rest of the park. “You've thought a lot about this, haven't you?”

“And you haven't.” Sylar raised an eyebrow again. Ordinarily, Peter might be inclined to retort to such a jab at his inability to do things right: but here, in the middle of a rare, peaceful Central Park, with Sylar's handprint still lingering on his knee and the man's support easing the weight on Peter's shoulders, it didn't bother him at all.

“Lucky I've got you, then.” He flashed a tiny grin. He could already feel himself evolving into mission-mode. He felt that telltale purpose flow within him like someone had opened a valve inside. It was more than invited after such a let-down at the casino yesterday, not to mention because Peter had been conflicted for hours, pointlessly chewing over this idea for fear it would cause a fight when exposed. Now that it hadn't, he was torn once again, but this time between gratitude and hesitation that they were really about to set off down this path with no obstacles holding them back. Or, well, only _one_ obstacle.

“I foresee an issue, Peter.” Sylar drawled, dropping back into the grass again as if they had merely settled on who was cooking dinner tonight, not that they were going to try to infiltrate Renautas' perilous hive. “Nothing to freak out over, but we're just so popular at the moment that I can't decide which of our many allies to turn to...”

The park was bustling with people. So was the city. So was the entire country. Yet these two men suddenly felt very, very alone in the midst of it all. Peter breathed in the mixed, lush smells of the park, lolling his head back against the tree again. Shit. Even if they _had_ multiple options, nobody in their right mind would help these two outcasts with their cause: a repentant ex-villain with a killer inferiority complex and a clingy, emotional wreck who'd managed to accidentally turn everyone he'd ever known against him.

“So...” Peter mused flatly. “How do we get help if everyone hates us?”

The two exiled men fell into silence and wallowed as the rest of the park thrived on, knowing not one of those people would be able to provide a helpful answer to their predicament.

Amongst the buzzing bees and birdsong, a synthetic _bleep!_ sounded from Peter's pocket. Hauled out of self pity, the pair jumped and locked equally shocked gazes. Sylar was the only person who ever texted this private number, so who...?

He scurried over as Peter nervously fished out his phone, so they could read the incoming message together.

' _All you have to do is ask for it.'_

***

“It's a trap, Peter!”

“We don't know that.”

Sylar scoffed and threw his arms into the air, tripping along behind Peter's stride like a good little companion accompanying him to the gallows. “It's _clearly_ a trap. Whoever that is has been spying on us – probably for weeks! And now you're seriously going to run in there and turn yourself over after everything we've been through?” His agitation echoed uncomfortably loudly off the glass windows lining each side of the corridor.

Peter sighed and faltered in his steps, turning to Sylar with that annoyingly self-assured look in his eyes, reserved only for instilling the high-and-mighty treatment. Oh, how much Sylar used to despise it...

“What if you're wrong? You said yourself: we need a miracle, and I don't see any alternatives lining up for us, do you? He said he was gonna _help_ us.”

Eyebrows sky high, Sylar leaned back in disbelief, as if to see Peter better through the dense cloud of stupid. “He also said the place is secure. And you actually _believe_ him?” The thought alone was hilarious! This cesspit had always been nothing but corrupt, draped in bad memories like ribbons of ancient cobwebs. Sylar had happily been under the impression that he'd never have to return here again.

Peter, meanwhile, apparently had other ideas. The man was silent while he pondered whether to reply or not. “You saved him, remember?” He said quietly. “He's not gonna hurt you.”

“We don't even know if it's _him._ ”

Tensing his jaw, Peter visibly threw caution (and sanity) to the wind and turned his back on Sylar to keep stalking down the long, dull corridor, his boots pounding on concrete. “There's one way to find out.”

Choking on which curse to throw after the stubborn empath but unable to decide on just one, Sylar balled his hands into fists and stomped along obediently. With every step closer he was certain he was signing away his freedom, and he almost pulled a muscle in his neck from peering into every neighbouring window they passed for signs of an impending attack.

He couldn't believe Peter would be so obtuse as to fall for the bait! But at the very least, if this _was_ a trap (which Sylar was unpleasantly sure it would be), there was no way in hell he was going to just allow the little brat to get captured on his own.

*

Of course Sylar's words hadn't completely rebounded off, however, Peter latched onto the civilians' happiness back at the park, and his utmost desire to be able to preserve such afternoons for future generations, to keep him walking steadily towards the furthest end of his lengthy path.

He understood Sylar's worries, but flowing stronger through his core than concern was a simple _feeling_ that it was going to be okay. That his urge to trust this contact was the right one. They'd asked for a miracle and one had been gifted in the form of a friend when the rest of the world offered them nothing. Peter wasn't about to pass up such a gift.

It was difficult, though, to ignore the hairs on the back of his neck standing up when they finally reached the door. Sylar fumed at his side, and Peter wished he didn't have to be so mad, but he said nothing. Even though it was pointless (as the glass walls and door would have already given away their position to anyone lingering out of sight) he waited for a second, listening for any worrying noises before making his move.

No sound from inside. Which was either very good or very bad.

When Peter grasped the handle the door opened easily. Unlocked? He chose to take that as a sign of invitation.

Standing in the open doorway, he cleared his throat. “H-hello?” His voice was far too loud in the otherwise deadly silent loft. He narrowed his eyes and blinked to orient his vision to the unnatural darkness within, having forgotten that this place was somehow always dull inside, as if it could filter out the sunlight just to maintain its artsy, studio vibe. Taking a step over the threshold, Peter swallowed his reservations and stood his ground for whatever was next to come his way.

*

Sylar crept into the loft on his companion's heels, senses heightened and abilities on hand even though he hoped he wouldn't have to use them (he wouldn't mind a break from using electricity, especially). It seemed as if the place was deserted – or at least pointedly lacking in dozens of armed and armoured agents here to take them down. Still he wasn't quite ready to drop his shields. Or admit that he might possibly have over-reacted.

Despite the warm day, he felt cold just from standing here once more. Isaac Mendez's old studio had barely changed except for being stripped back to the bare bones: old easels, tins of paint and empty shelves littered the floor and walls; scents of oils and turpentine were ingrained in the very bricks of the place; and the pitiful leftovers of the old owner's prophetic paintings were piled up in the back. Primatech or, more likely, Renautas must've ransacked the place for anything of use, leaving behind only a sad, forgotten workspace of many past encounters.

A workspace, Sylar finally noted, that had canned food and comic books stacked neatly in the far corner? Beside a modified laptop, bulging backpack and a freshly made bed...?

“Thanks for coming.”

Both Peter and Sylar startled at the sudden voice, watching warily as movement stirred from a darkened alcove of the loft. The former killer's stomach dropped and his heart began to race faster as he waited, out here in the open, one of two of the country's most wanted targets. If it had been Renautas agents then he and Peter would've been well and truly screwed! ...But it wasn't Renautas agents. Sylar finally admitted that to himself, half relieved and half hating that he'd been proven wrong.

For he _had_ been wrong. He knew that now. With a twist in his gut he recognised the quiet, coarse voice and tousled curls of the boy who emerged from the shadows to greet them.

*

Peter couldn't help but stare.

“...Rebel?”

Holy shit... _this_ was Micah Sanders...? He looked... different than what Peter had been expecting, to say the least. Softer, younger, much too young to be living it rough in an abandoned artist's loft by himself! The kid was barely even a teenager; tanned cheeks gaunt from living off a poor diet but his face still round from youth; black hair overgrown and untended; and eyes gentle but marked by seeing too much for his age.

Instantly Peter forgot why he was here and only wanted to help this kid, to find him a family or at the very least buy him a decent meal. This was no way for anyone to live – never mind someone so young! The life of a fugitive on the run who was branded a target by his ability was not a game, Peter knew from experience, and he wouldn't wish it on anyone. Who knew how long this guy had been living this way? He would've been even younger at the time he'd helped Peter and Matt infiltrate Building 26 to put a stop to the government facility... The thought that Peter had used his aid and never even thought about him for more than imagining some techno whiz in a lab somewhere now stung at him. Sure, Sylar had recounted the time he'd tracked down the fugitive “Rebel” for Danko, but now the reason why he'd let his target escape took on a whole new meaning.

Peter had to actually struggle to compose himself and hide all heartbreak from his smile. He doubted they'd been invited here for a pity party.

“Hey, hi... thank you! For helping us...” Taking the stairs down to the main level of the loft, Peter cleared his throat again and led Sylar across Matt Parkman's repainted floor mural of Washington D.C. on fire. As soon as he got close enough, he took Micah's hand in both his own in greeting. “It's great to finally meet you in person, I'm P-”

“Peter Petrelli. I know who you are.” Micah grinned and Peter was pleased to see life inject his youthful features. “You're a hero. You're _the_ good guy.”

Taken aback, Peter could feel his face starting to heat. When Micah dropped his hand Peter played with his hair to distract from his blushing cheeks. “...Thanks?” He was still recovering from the surprise of Rebel's identity even _before_ being stunted by such sudden, unexpected praise.

The boy's approving gaze didn't falter but his smile began to fade, as if he'd just remembered that this was a serious matter. “I was there that night in Kirby Plaza.” He croaked softly, almost wistfully.

A knot formed itself in Peter's airway. “You were?” He breathed.

Vividly cast back in time to that night, he couldn't for the life of him remember Micah being there (god, he must've been a child at the time...) but that didn't mean it wasn't true. Peter hadn't exactly noticed who was watching him and who wasn't, having been a little busy trying not to decimate the entire city. Just the thought, though... he could only imagine the impression he'd made.

As if he knew exactly what Peter was thinking and wanted to dispel those worries, the boy's face sparkled anew with pure admiration. “I saw what you did, what you were willing to do to save the city. It was amazing, just like a true hero.”

*

Forgotten and ignored outside this happy little reunion, Sylar scoffed bitterly. “Yeah, it was a blast...”

Sure, Micah meant well with his fanboy worship, but Sylar felt his defences rising anyway. So it hadn't been a trap set by Renautas, still, Sylar was sure he actually felt worse now than he would have done at the alternative. He quite liked the idea of hiding until the other two were finished reminiscing about the good ol' days when _he_ had been a nasty obstacle of that night... Had they forgotten that tiny detail? Or did they just not realise how unpleasant it was to relive it in the light of _amazing_ heroics?

Hands buried deep in his pockets, rocking awkwardly on the spot, he dropped his gaze from the flaked and peeling ceiling and into two matching expressions. Both guys looked slightly hurt, disapproving of his rather tactless sarcasm. Oh, so _now_ they remembered he was here? If only that could feel more like a good thing.

Pulling an apologetic face, Sylar hunched his shoulders. “Sorry.” He mumbled, intending to stand as silently and invisibly as possible until they were done. The last thing he wanted to do was scare Micah off helping them, or even remind the kid of their last, uh, eventful meeting.

This plan was disregarded when Micah took a step closer to Sylar, expanding the one-on-one conversation to make room for another member. The ex-killer tensed at the sudden scrutiny, wishing he didn't feel so awful every time he looked upon the young boy.

Awe seeped steadily across Micah's face, more than ever. “I also saw what you both did at the oil rig.” Sylar's eyes darted up briefly to meet Peter's. “And in Vegas. I saw you catch those cable cars in San Francisco before anyone got hurt; you flew up and saved that little girl on the Statue of Liberty; and that falling bridge in Chicago would've crushed those people if you hadn't saved them!”

Okay. When the fanboy praise was shared between them, Sylar had to admit it wasn't so irritating. But while Peter seemed touched beyond the capability of speech by Micah's dedication to their actions, Sylar couldn't overlook one itty bitty issue that continued to bug him like a splinter.

*

“So you've been watching us?”

Peter was shaken out of his flattered stupor by the edge in Sylar's voice. He watched as the man seemed to elongate into an even taller, even slimmer shape, and as the tender parts of his face hardened into the intimidating mask that Peter used to know too well.

Micah was not impervious to this display. “Yeah?” He said nervously, shuffling on the spot but never faltering in his courage.

Sylar responded too quickly and silkily for Peter to unstick his voice and intervene. “Spying on us, right?”

“No, not spying –”

“Listening to our conversations?”

“Not the private ones –!”

“So you've been watching our every move and listening to our conversations, and this has been going on for weeks now?” Sylar chuckled coldly. “That sounds mighty like an invasion of privacy to me – but _clearly_ I'm wrong. I dunno, what d'you think, Peter -”

“I've been _protecting_ you!” Micah's insistence echoed and rang itself out around the empty, concrete loft. “Yeah, I've been watching, keeping an eye out for the day you finally ask for help, but it's not what you think!”

Even before he'd said something so touching, Peter had been veering towards putting a protective arm around the kid in the wake of Sylar's attitude. As it was, he only crossed the distance to stand by Sylar, casually, accidentally, slightly in front of his path to Micah. The ex-killer was almost frazzling the air around himself, and Peter didn't need to look to know the man's lips were tightly pursed and his eyebrows pulled low as he worked over this new information.

Taking advantage of the pause, Peter refrained from kicking Sylar in the shin for scaring their new contact, and instead spoke gently to Micah. He crossed his arms loosely across his chest to stop himself bending to the kid's level like a patronizing parent, hoping it wasn't too late to tease back any trust that might have been wounded. “What d'you mean, protecting us?”

To his credit, the boy stood his ground in the wake of Sylar's attitude. When he opened his mouth, he exuded a level-headed confidence that was far above his years, as if he had deemed the argument less important than the matter at hand. Peter couldn't help but like this kid already.

“I've been feeding Renautas false data about where you're staying. Covering your tracks so they'll never know someone's been there. Sometimes I erase traces of you from CCTV, and I've been keeping your identities away from the press. You've got enough to worry about as it is, right?” Then he giggled, suddenly seeming much closer to his age. “Sometimes I send them “tips”... you'd never believe the stuff they fall for!”

Vacantly, Peter realised it must not have been Charles Devaux's spirit keeping them safe at the penthouse after all. No. It had been their real, live guardian angel. The air at his back noticeably cooled as Sylar's temper dissolved, and Peter felt both awful and honoured that someone would ever put so much effort into their best interests and he hadn't even known about it.

“Why would you help us?” Everything he was feeling filtered into his voice.

Again, the boy smiled a smile that was somehow untainted despite his living conditions and the world he belonged in. “I'm helping as many of us as I can. The good guys, the ones who deserve it.”

He nodded in the general direction of his makeshift den – a workstation, of sorts. So this was how he was surviving? Day in, day out, alone in this rancid room with nothing but his laptop, all so he could invest his life in helping the “good guys”? The good guys which, Peter hadn't failed to notice, apparently included himself and Sylar. It would have been inspiring if it wasn't so heartbreaking.

“You've been living here?” He asked. Micah nodded, his messy curls swinging. “Where's your family? Do they know where you are?”

At once he regretted asking. The look that overcame that face could only mean one thing. Peter didn't need any details, there were too many horrible answers: maybe Micah's parents had disowned their son when they realised what he could do; they had abilities themselves and had suffered for this at the hands of the enemy; or maybe they'd died heroes while fighting the good fight, leaving their son all alone in this big, bad world with a bullseye on his back...?

Finally Peter couldn't take it any longer. With a sad exhalation, he uncrossed his arms to reach for Micah. He grasped a skinny shoulder with care, knowing it wouldn't solve anything but wishing for it to be so. “I'm sorry.” He whispered.

*

How could Peter make it look so easy? He'd barely known the kid two minutes and already there was a connection growing there, one easy and genuine and, most of all, compassionate. Meanwhile Sylar had actually saved Micah Sanders' _life_ last time they'd met, and _he'd_ been nothing but awkward and mean and had only served to dig himself a deeper hole since the moment they'd arrived! Damn it, he wished it didn't have to be so difficult when re-meeting his old, uh, _acquaintances_ in this new life.

He watched with a mixture of affection and envy as the two selfless do-gooders shared this touching moment. Sylar didn't dare try to intrude or even make a sound. He'd only ruin it.

Peter held Micah's shoulder in a similar manner to how he had Sylar's last night, and the kid's face shone with that same faked bravado that Peter and Sylar had been wielding themselves lately. Huh. Maybe it wasn't so uncommon to be this fucked up after all?

“It's not too bad.” Micah asserted. He almost sounded believable. “I always wanted to live in the city growing up. I never planned on breaking into old Primatech quarters, but it's the perfect place and it's not too hard to keep them thinking it's deserted.” He seemed rather proud of himself for that last part.

Sylar didn't know where to look. He was on the verge of wandering over to nosey through the remaining paintings until the other two wrapped this up (it wasn't like he'd be missed, right?) when Peter straightened and gestured to the living quarters in the corner of the studio. “Can I?”

Micah nodded, and all at once Sylar retracted his wishes. He didn't want Peter to go and leave him alone with this boy, but he didn't manage more than a worried puff of breath after his friend's retreating, betraying back before it was just him and a former victim standing over the exact spot where Sylar had committed his first murder in this room.

It was not a fun feeling.

They stood in an uncomfortable silence as Peter's footsteps faded in volume. ...Maybe it would be less awkward if Micah would send him death stares instead of that understanding look? Or if he'd at least stop being so nice? Sylar found himself almost wishing for an angry retort or a well deserved punch to come his way – anything to break the ice – but he was well aware it was pointless to dream. Micah was much too kind for that type of thing. Which only made it worse.

*

Peter climbed the stairs two at a time towards the makeshift computer lab. He failed to force away the memory of Simone's unseeing eyes and dead weight in his arms as he approached the last place he'd set eyes upon her. This place held too many ghosts. Too many secrets and broken hearts. It had always been a pit where bad things happened... but that didn't mean there wasn't hope on the horizon.

He didn't slow down until he was kneeling on the cold ground beside an impressive pile of 9th Wonders comic books and a heavily modified laptop, propped up on what appeared to have once been parts of an easel.

The scrolling text on the laptop screen made no sense to Peter. He caught glimpses of random names and what he assumed must be locations – Alex Woolsly, Molly Walker, Phoebe Frady – but couldn't hope to understand the tech speak that filled almost every inch of space in indecipherable code. It didn't matter. He could interpret enough to realise that Micah must have a hand in monitoring almost a hundred people's safety, if not more.

Despite the chill of the floor seeping through his jeans, Peter was unable to tear his gaze away or contain the stunned smile that broke over his face. This right here was solid evidence that there _was_ still good in the world, that Renautas didn't control every corner of it as securely as they thought they did! Rebel was rebelling the constraints of society, just like Peter and Sylar were.

He, too, was helping people. He was making a stand. They weren't alone.

*

The silence was driving him mad. Sylar couldn't _not_ look at Micah any longer, it felt like hours already but only seconds had passed. He was not looking forward to the upcoming interaction. To kicking up old dust. He probably could get away with avoiding the topic altogether, but remorse, sadness and that still tender, good part of him were calling for more attention than his once mighty ego.

Finally, Sylar let out a sigh. With it, he tried to let go of the crippling humiliation that had festered in silence since the first time he'd met Rebel, nine long years ago from his perspective.

“Listen, Micah...” He started, bringing his face into full view of the kid's knowing eyes.

“It's okay.” The technopath smiled.

Sylar's internal organs sizzled and his voice suddenly lost its strength. “It's not okay.”

“You don't have to apologise.” Micah blinked up at him with those young, yet weathered, eyes. “I know you were hurting back then, you were confused. I understand what that's like. And what it can do to a person.”

It stung more that he was being so gracious. Far too gracious. First to go to such lengths to protect them (even if the snooping was still a factor Sylar couldn't warm to), and then not to cast up the former villain's witnessed mental breakdown. Everyone else he'd used to know would definitely hold onto such leverage and exert it like the weapon it was. But today alone, Micah had proved himself to be not like everyone else. He really was one of the good ones.

No wonder he and Peter got on like a house on fire. Sylar dug his hands deeper into his pockets but denied the natural reaction to hunch in on himself. He didn't even know what to say. Should he accept the easy way out? Fight to say his piece? Even after all this time, it was still cripplingly embarrassing to know Micah had caught him shape-shifting into his dead mother and having a half-cracked conversation with himself. Sylar had accidentally forgotten to tell Peter that detail of the story. And the part where, ashamed, he'd kicked the kid out into the streets followed by death threats.

However, miraculously, it seemed like the victim of said attack had no intention of holding a grudge. “I'm glad you're feeling better.” Micah said quietly, before Sylar had even decided which route to take. “I'm glad you're finally using your powers for good.”

He looked sympathetic, an emotion which Sylar would go out of his way to quash in everyone who dared try it on him. He might have attempted to now if there hadn't been such pride exuding from the kid also.

“I always knew you had it in you to be a hero.”

Sylar wasn't too sure he liked the twinge of superiority that this homeless child seemed to be displaying towards him. But as for the statement, itself? Well, Micah had just said the magic words. Sylar didn't even need a lie detector ability to know the kid was speaking from the heart. Almost reluctantly, he allowed the last of his reservations to unwind, surrendered to the fuzzy feeling inside and the inevitable smile that softened the angles of his face.

Looking down the difference in their heights, Sylar hummed through curved lips. “You did, didn't you?”

He could tell the exact second Micah realised he was in the clear. The little face beamed in the type of smile he'd given Peter easily, but it was the first time Sylar had earned it, himself. It was... a weird sensation. Even Hiro still had a slight guarded vibe about him whenever they spoke, and aside from Peter, Sylar couldn't even remember the last time someone had gifted him such a genuine gesture. He tried to return it, but got the feeling he'd only come across as an estranged loner who had no clue or experience in how to bond with kids. In other words, he didn't fool anyone to the truth.

The young guy lifted his attention from Sylar enough to turn his head away, a sign of trust that did not go unnoticed. He drew Sylar's eye along with his own to the third party engrossed in the laptop at the side of the room.

“All you needed this whole time was a friend, and I'm glad you chose him.” He half giggled again, a rusty, pleasant sound. “But it shouldn't have been such a surprise: the hero redeems the villain and they go on together to save the world...? It's textbook stuff.”

The references weren't much appreciated on Sylar's end, however he chose to overlook them this once. Micah had been alone with nothing but comic books for so long, after all. Sylar remembered the temporary phase in the early years of Parkman's punishment when his own thoughts had been formatted like the narration in the books that were his only company, so he cut the kid some slack. Except on one point.

“I didn't choose him.” He murmured fondly, eyes still on his only friend.

Funny, sometimes Sylar could so clearly recall the moment when everything in his universe had changed. Between one endless second and the next, the world was suddenly lacking the cold edges he had grown to accept; the first distant sound in years was echoing in his head, and all at once there was an unmistakable figure standing at the far end of the street: a real, living, human being imprinted against the vacant backdrop of nothingness... No, Sylar hadn't chosen Peter Petrelli of all people to burst into his world in a flurry of self-righteousness, steel fists and emotion. At the time he'd just settled for the discount prize that had been dumped on his doorstop while there was no other option. Now, though – damage and baggage and all – he wouldn't exchange his winnings for anything.

He was shaken out of the empty streets of his mind when Micah started walking in Peter's direction, looking back for Sylar to follow. He obliged. “However you guys worked it out, I think it's really good that you did.”

Sylar dropped a questioning gaze at his new companion as they crossed the floor side by side. For a moment he considered breaking open the topic of Parkman's punishment and the subsequent years spent locked together in a dream. But only for a moment.

Micah continued blabbering, as if it was the most everyday of topics and not one that some people prefer to keep private. “Now you're not lonely anymore.”

*

Peter caught the tail end of the conversation just as the other two climbed the stairs to join him at the laptop. Standing and stretching his stiff legs, he shuffled shyly and pretended he hadn't heard anything he hadn't been invited to listen to. It was probably about time they got down to the real reason of this meeting anyway, right?

“Uh... so, you're doing all this by yourself?” He asked Micah, but glanced briefly over his head at Sylar. The guy looked right back with a hint of I-suppose-you-might-have-been-right acquiescence touching his lips. He was definitely more relaxed than he had been earlier, which Peter gladly used to fuel his enthusiasm. Returning the secret smile, he stepped back to give the technopath access to his laptop.

“I'm in touch with people all over the world, but this is the main server.” He'd barely touched a hand to the computer and it began to whir and flicker through hundreds of assorted documents. He scanned through the racing files with practised ease, knowing exactly what he was looking for. Peter couldn't help but watch this ability unfold in awe for the first time. “It's gets a little tiring, but I'm doing this for the same reason _you_ do what you do: we can't let Renautas win. ...Which is why I called you here.”

At last the filmreel of files slowed to a stop and a sole video feed sat alone on the screen. Micah broke his attention from his laptop to look at both Peter and Sylar in turn. He talked over a video of a recognisable, bespectacled man crossing a parking lot and entering a large building that was almost disguised behind ongoing renovations. Peter's hackles rose and fists clenched automatically.

“Noah Bennet has been working from the old Primatech headquarters in Odessa.” Micah said. The footage cut to reveal a basic hallway that Noah descended; then cut to inside a dropping elevator; then Noah bypassing the security of a large, reinforced door that made Peter's knuckles whiten. “Most of his operations go down in the basement, but I don't have eyes inside. He spends hours in there, mostly in his office or _this_ cell...” A digital blueprint of the basement floorplan flashed up on screen, with one cell in the block, the biggest one, highlighted.

Of course Noah was still working from this fucking building! Even burning the godforsaken place to ground couldn't put an end to it! Peter felt ill at the thought of going back there. How many times had he seen the inside of that corridor, the inside of the cells? His family had been buried up to their necks in the place and its many ministrations, and almost everyone Peter knew had been dragged into the shitshow at some point or other. It wasn't enough that Renautas' had a share in hundreds of corporations over the globe. It just had to resurrect the one place that could only be improved when reduced to a smoking mass of rubble.

*

Sylar hated himself for actually being caught off guard by this disconcerting information. It was just _so_ predictable that it was ridiculous. With difficulty, he held all regurgitated flashbacks and emotions at bay now that they had started to talk strategies, but made a mental note to kick something later. Hard. Where was the indestructible Wall when he needed it...?!

“And you can get us in there?” He directed at Micah, cataloguing the security system and the overall look of the place. It had certainly had a sleek, probably obscenely expensive, makeover since Sylar had last roamed those halls.

“Yeah, all the way to the basement. I can't make you invisible though, you'll still need a disguise –” Between Peter and Sylar, the third evo tensed as a sudden detour in thought seemed to overtake him. “...But I _can_ make you disappear.” He straightened up and stood back to observe them both at once.

The taste of a change in plans permeated the air, not harmful, yet enough to have Sylar suspiciously rake his eyes over the boy. Making someone disappear? Perhaps into a pile of dust? The phrase hit far too close to home right now.

“Invading Renautas is gonna be dangerous.” Micah said pointlessly. “I can't promise nothing will go wrong in there. You're walking into the bad guys' lair, you've threatened their power and embarrassed them again and again, it's not gonna be pretty if they catch you.”

“Thanks for that encouraging reminder.”

Micah shook his head earnestly, his curls getting in his eyes. “...I said I'm gonna help you. And I will, I promise. Either by sneaking you in... or by sneaking you out.”

...Oh. Sylar released his wary stance and sheepishly dropped his eyes. This unarmed, unallied tween had not only invited the two known most powerful evos to his secret hideout, but had shared precious intelligence and undeserved kind words with them as well. And now he was _really_ offering to help extricate them from the madness had had no easy escape route...?

To his side, Peter looked about as humbled and surprised by this turn of events as Sylar felt. “Th-thanks, but... you don't have to do that...”

“But you could escape all this!” Sylar had no doubt that the kid was being totally genuine. He felt even worse for casting him out last time. “You can run and start a new life away from here! I can cover for you? I can leave a false trail somewhere they'll never find you... you can finally be free.”

The sweet, sweet promise swam through the air of the loft, pure enough to counteract the stinging stench of turpentine. Everything else fell by the wayside, as if Peter and Sylar hadn't spent months working up to this moment.

Oh, how easy it would be to say yes. To turn their backs on Bennet and co. with their middle fingers raised and fuck off to somewhere no one knew them, a real, permanent reprieve that didn't involve time travel, '90s fashion and questionable haircuts...

Sylar didn't want to get carried away, but it was so undeniably tempting. The lure brushed past so close it arose the hairs on his arms. So close he could almost taste it. ...A fresh start... anonymity... _happiness_...?

*

It was because the idea sounded so glorious that Peter knew he could never go for it. He wouldn't even know how to move on from this life of his, how to say goodbye to the family who never wanted to see him again, how to let go of his many charges who didn't even know his name... He could almost imagine the outlines of a faint picture: the alternative, the unknown. For all he knew it could be perfect... but even if running away turned out to be the best decision he'd ever made, it would never be the right one.

One look into Sylar's eyes revealed his entire thought process. Peter could see his friend's perspective as clearly as if he'd used Lydia's ability to read his soul again, and knew he had been stripped equally bare in return. They shared a conversation in one heartbeat, one unintelligible to the outside world and the watchful observer barely three steps away. Peter watched potential swirl in those deep, dark eyes. He then watched the scale of possibility ease back from the brink of fantasy and clunk down once more into the cold earth of real life.

It was too good to be true. Too easy. And neither of these men had ever known the meaning of that word.

A longing half-smile possessed Sylar's mouth and Peter nodded softly, then the taller man turned back to face Micah with the certainty with which he made every decision. One that, this time, Peter agreed with whole-heartedly.

“We're not running. Not until we see this thing through.”

Micah seemed unaffected by the rejection of his generous offer. Instead the raw concern melted away from his youthful form and a sly grin crept over his face.

The tiny motion shook Peter to his senses like a hook behind the navel. He knew the “game on” look far too well to mistake it, so well that he made the effort to half mourn, half embrace his last chance to back out as he watched it slip through his fingers.

A glint of something infectious twinkled in Micah's eye. “I hoped you'd say that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading this chapter! I know it's been a long journey to get this far, and it means the world to me that you've stayed with me throughout it <3 I can promise there's a lot more story on the way: a lot more emotion, surprises and action, that I hope won't disappoint ^.^
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this update, it was more of a slow, steady one, taking the time to recuperate between action that I think the boys needed, and we did too X) But in case it isn't obvious, next update will be right back into the thick of things now that our heroes are heading back to Odessa... (c'mon, surely you knew it was coming at some point? XP)
> 
> I've been meaning to say for ages: if you're on Tumblr and would like to see my thoughts on Heroes, little random posts about the show, or a ton of Peter and Sylar screenshots (many still to come), please go follow me over there ^.^ https://thefieryeclipse.tumblr.com/


	15. Old Friends

Computer keys clacked in the otherwise dead studio. It was the only sound that competed with the honking of car horns and pedestrian babble from the streets far below.

Micah Sanders used manual coding alongside a soothing whisper of technopathic requests to leapfrog the firewalls and slip through unburied loopholes in Renautas' design, getting a comfortable feel of the scope of their system. Hunched over his laptop, buried in a fort of messy blankets on Isaac's old, creaky bed, the young boy shook his curls out his eyes and cracked his knuckles. Everything was in place, he was excited to note: he'd charmed Renautas' security system over to his side already, the channels were open and awaiting his command, and the two unmistakable figures called up on his screen from the parking lot camera were infiltrating their way towards the building, matching stride for stride and never straying further from the other than they could reach.

Micah took a second to smile at them. At their passion. Their bravery. Peter Petrelli and Sylar. He was grateful just to be able to work with them: the hero and the redeemed villain, the only two people he had ever encountered who had already died for their plight and still wouldn't be conquered. Too many heroes had been lost over Micah's short life. Although he wouldn't admit so aloud, it was a comfort to know that his new friends couldn't join the likes of the others despite dying. Which was probably just as well, because they likely would sacrifice themselves again without a second thought – although that wouldn't be today, if Micah had anything to say about it.

He didn't know what was going to happen in there. Or what to do if the plan didn't work. But he _did_ know, without any trace of doubt, that he couldn't have chosen a better two candidates for the job.

***

It was, without a doubt, the best coffee machine in the whole of Texas. Noah Bennet couldn't remember how he'd ever used to survive without the elixir it provided. Not cheap, watery stuff masquerading as the treasured substance, but _real_ , _rich_ coffee that, even when available at the touch of a button, could warm you to the core even on the toughest of days.

Renautas' spacious staff lounge was currently quiet, almost empty, which coincidentally happened to be how Noah liked it best. He stood by the towering windows embedded the height of the wall, allowing the bubbling and brewing of the forthcoming beverage at his side to soothe him. This coffee machine had to be the best gadget that the technological giant of his employers had invested in. Better than the data tablets they insisted Noah learn how to use, better than the impenetrable security system that had cost many a taxpayer's dollar. At any rate, it was just about the only thing in the redesign of Primatech HQ that didn't make Noah long for the previous version.

Such as the interior design of this place, for example. Aside from suffering serious caffeine withdrawal, Noah's head was pounding under the blinding Texas sunset and the embarrassing failure of the recent casino job. Oh yeah, it had _certainly_ helped his case in the eyes of his boss... he could still recall her hooked brows and pursed lips with clarity. All he craved right now was a quiet, dark place to gather his thoughts for half an hour, but level 6 was hardly relaxing, and everywhere else in the entire building seemed to be coated in glass and gleaming white ceramic. So this bright, open-plan, communal space would have to suffice.

Noah ignored the ongoing transformation of the old building at his back, barely able to recognise the halls he'd spent over twenty years of his life roaming. They'd come a long way from wood-panelled walls and a simple key pad on the door, alright. Gone were the false paper facilities that masked the _real_ goings on of the Company, no longer were there meticulously placed props and deceptions to mislead any visitors in the surface levels and warehouse, and Noah understood why. There was no reason to hide the company's involvement in evo welfare when the logo literally spelled it out for the world to see. But did they really have to rebuild the old place to look like a shiny, sleek dentist's office or a modern art gallery? He had already lost count of the amount of times he'd almost sat on what he thought was some backless, armless, abstract piece of “furniture”, only to discover he could've broken an expensive new piece of tech.

Thank the heavens he'd found this coffee maker in the midst of it all. And the one and only comfortable seat in the entirety of the staff quarters. God knows he needed them more and more each day.

The blessed hunk of machinery finally gurgled into silence. Noah scooped his burning cup from its clutches, carrying it over to the corner of one L-shaped couch – the best chair in the house. The fabric squeaked as the middle aged man sank into it, cradling his coffee like the life source it was. As the beverage warmed his bones, Noah took advantage of this break to gaze out the windows at the view he still knew by heart.

It was Texas. Odessa. Kissed by the amber light of sunset.

This was the place he'd lived longest in his entire life. Where he'd re-married, built his career, raised his family... he never imagined he'd live here without them. The landscape had barely changed in all these years. If he blanked the details of the immediate environment, Noah could easily be sitting in this spot after a quiet shift below stacks of decorative paper, preparing to head home and help a thirteen year old Claire with her math homework. It really wasn't so long ago. Even now, Noah could almost smell Sandra's questionable cooking greeting him at the door, see the smiles on his family's faces as he called out to them, feel their hugs and kisses that used to make everything worthwhile... It was easy to forget about the countless lies that had ruined it all.

The creamy drink steamed up Noah's glasses and helped keep his feelings subdued, spreading silkily across the angry wounds and callouses marking a life well lived. Odessa was home. This building more than the old house used to be, true, but now _that_ was gone and so was his family, and when this was all that was left? He couldn't help but wonder about what might have been.

What if Claire had never jumped from that Ferris Wheel? What if the Company had never found out about her and they'd never had to move state? What if Sylar had never hunted her down and outed her ability in the first place...?! They could still be living a normal family life, right this second. Or, as normal as it had ever been, of course. Claire could be in college, not touring the country with the whole world watching her every move; Lyle could be passing his finals and heading the football team, not flunking out of school and refusing to have anything to do with his family; and Sandra could still be Noah's wife and not some other man's girlfriend...

A normal-ish family. A normal-ish life. It was nice to imagine. Not so nice to acknowledge everything he'd lost because of his career.

It would be easy to call it quits from this company that was outgrowing him, retire for good while he still held a scrap of pride and try to salvage what was left of his dwindling connections to the people he loved. And perhaps Noah would have done. If he didn't still care about his family as much as he always had.

He couldn't just turn his back on this current bastard of a mission and _allow_ Angela Petrelli's dream to come true. If Peter Petrelli and Sylar reached their full, terrible potential, then forget a normal life for Noah and his family – forget anything at all! There would be no “normal”, no “life”, not even a world to mourn! Of course Noah had to do his best to protect the lives of billions of people all over the globe, even if everyone other than Angela was just humouring his failing efforts. But, most importantly, he still had a god-given duty to his family.

Despite the fact that Lyle, Sandra, Claire and even Mr Muggles didn't like him much at the moment, Noah would never stop doing what he could to keep them safe. Be that by lying and wiping their memories in the old days, or going up against Renautas' Most Wanted single-handedly in present day.

Noah sighed, swirled his emptying cup and removed his glasses to rub at tired eyes. At the very least, he wished it didn't have to be Peter in the firing line. He really did. The kid had been through enough already. Noah wished he could explain it, but how could he tell someone to surrender or they were going to end up destroying the world? He wished it was easy. He wished a lot of things. It didn't change what had happened and didn't change reality.

How much more of this relentless teasing could one man endure? How much failure? The reality was that, in the end, _someone_ had to lose... and Noah was hell bent on ensuring that someone wasn't going to be _him_.

His fragile equilibrium was disturbed by scuffing footsteps crossing the lounge toward him.

“Bennet?”

“Stevens.”

Renautas' brilliantly white décor seemed even brighter when Noah re-focused his attention onto the room. Wiping and replacing his famous horn rims, he plastered a smile over his thoughts, one nobody could ever hope to pry open.

Agent Stevens' face flickered with an emotion Noah could have gone without. “She's here.”

Yes, Mr Bennet was practically now a laughing stock to his bosses and co-workers, but that didn't mean he was just going to lie down and play dead. Not _this_ man. The man with the plan. And it was precisely the promise of his next course of action that helped ease the transition from failed father into company man ready for duty.

The seasoned agent mentally pried himself away from family dinners and movie nights and back into work-mode, dusting off the flakes of regret and neatening his tie. Downing the silken ends of his coffee, he cast one last look outside to where the sun was saying its final goodbyes before dipping below the horizon. He probably had a _long_ night ahead of him in this facility that never slept. Perhaps, for once, it would be time well spent towards his cause? He dared to dream.

Standing and turning that practised smile upon his subordinate once more, Noah tried his best not to sound patronizing.

“Then send her up.”

*

Stevens didn't need telling twice. He span on his heel and trotted away from the staff lounge, more than eager to see Noah's next... appointment, again. It wasn't often that women like _her_ graced these halls. That walk, the hidden smile at the corners of her mouth, the way her hair swished with every step... even the withering stare was welcome when it came from a face like that!

He was rudely interrupted from wondering how he could get Bennet to let him sit in on the meeting when he turned the corner, only to see the doors up ahead sliding closed without him.

Picking up the pace, Stevens hurried down the corridor. “Wait! Hold the elevator!”

 _Thud!_ A large, dark hand clasped around one door, prying it open to emit the already-out-of-breath analyst. Stevens jogged to a stop inside the elevated car, grateful that he didn't have to wait for the next one, be even later, or (god forbid) have to take the stairs.

This relief was short lived however, when he went to thank his saviour and found himself trapped inside a tiny metal box with only a towering, glowering man for company. ...Damn. Perhaps this would've been the last person he'd ever choose to encounter when no one could hear him scream, but Stevens hadn't spend a lifetime kissing asses for nothing.

Quickly recovering himself, the analyst turned his back on the unwanted company, tapped the touchpad on the wall and tried to settle in and look as casual as he would riding in a suspended cage with anyone else. He nodded to the man on his right as the doors slid closed. “Thank you, Mr Harris.” And to the man on his left as the carriage dropped too slowly. “Mr Harris.” Then he buried himself in this data tablet to avoid the duplicates' gazes, beyond caring what he was reading as long as he looked busy.

Now he may have been able to _act_ nonchalant, but sweat was already beginning to bead along his brow just at sharing such close proximity with two copies of the dangerous evo who _he_ had recruited to the job he was now trapped in and hated. As if only one of him wasn't intimidating enough!

Peeking at the reflection on the inside of the doors, Agent Stevens was both thankful and surprised to see the duplicates paying him no attention whatsoever. No, they were just staring at each other with an intensity that scalded the back of his neck like crippling sunburn.

*

What the _hell_...?!

He couldn't stop gaping in disbelief. Unable to form his thoughts into a subtle expression, he simply glared at where the other Harris was both trying to silently apologise and not squirm without drawing attention from the third party in the room. It was so ridiculous, something so stupid and natural and clumsy that of _course_ they would get this far past security, only to get busted because Peter Petrelli had to _hold the door open_ for the enemy!

The three men stood in awkward silence as the elevator descended at a snail's pace. Sylar knew the other shape-shifter had realised his mistake a second too late, but still blamed him all the same. Inside M.F. Harris' form, the watchmaker had to physically struggle not to either hit his friend or explode with hysterical laughter. What a fantastic conclusion to their story! What a way to go! After all the murder, violence and running, in the end it could be _manners_ that got the better of them...!

There was nothing they could do about it now though. They were past the point of no return, their hidden, teenage guardian was guiding them and they were too close to the goal to back out. Really, it was amazing that it had all gone so smoothly until now – that had never happened on a job before! And if they didn't have Micah on their side they'd have literally hit no less than twelve security barriers already so really, Sylar supposed, he should be grateful, right? It was about time something went wrong!

If he wasn't already uptight enough just from being back in this godforsaken building, this turn of events really plopped the cherry on top. But, unable to do anything without sacrificing the mission, Sylar's only course of action was to hope his and Peter's disguises held up, and wish to get the journey over and done with as soon as possible without any complications arising.

Complications such as, for example, this puny Renautas worker deciding to strike up a conversation with the two alarmed imposters. Brilliant.

*

“So... Harris? How did it go?”

Feeling claustrophobic while wrapped up in layers of the old Primatech building, in the seemingly-shrinking elevator, not to mention within the skin of that bastard Harris, Peter only panicked further in response to the stranger's question.

He threw another furtive glance at Sylar-Harris, failing to maintain the composed characteristics they'd agreed to match in order to act like believable duplicates. What the hell were they supposed to do now?! Knock this guy out? Hide him until they'd been and gone? Hope nobody found them carrying an unconscious body around and count on Micah to later wipe the footage...? Peter would rather avoid that option if he could, but his frazzled senses weren't helping him out with any alternatives.

At his side, the watchmaker twitched one of M.F. Harris' eyebrows, and Peter was instantly comforted by such a Sylar-ish gesture on that hostile face.

“How d'you think?” The duplicator's deep voice curled into the air, sounding so authentic that Peter suppressed a shiver. By the looks of it, so did the older man standing in front of them.

“Ah. Gotcha.” He laughed nervously. “Ms Kravid really has a way with people, doesn't she? But she can't have been that upset. She sent you back here, that's gotta be a good thing?”

Two pairs of identical eyes met again briefly. Peter didn't dare even blink. Was Sylar seriously about to bullshit their way out of this?

“Does it?”

“Oh!” The Renautas agent fake guffawed. “I... I suppose you have a point, there! I can never tell what she's thinking either. But I figure it's best to just nod along and stay in her good graces...” The stout man faded into silence and rocked on the balls of his feet, his discomfort so apparent that Peter could literally smell it. The stench hardly added to the _fun_ of the current scenario, but at least it meant the heat wasn't only on the two fugitives freely wandering the bowels of their enemy's fortress. “I dunno about you, Harris, but I don't plan on saying the wrong thing and being shipped offshore with the – ah – ah – the, I mean, uh... hmmm...”

Stuttering to a stop, the man burned scarlet while both Peter and Sylar's jaws tensed. “Shipped offshore”? This “Kravid” woman...? Peter didn't like the sound of any of it. Especially not when he could do absolutely nothing about it without blowing his cover. Catching his reflection in the door, he guessed that if any expression he'd made so far was supposed to constitute as Harris', this emotionally constipated one had to be the most accurate.

*

Sylar despised just the mention of anything to do with the organisation he was presently drowned in on all sides. The fact that the employees could chat so freely about the goings on, as if it was no more a big deal that arranging shipments of real Primatech paper, made his blood boil. Had it always been that way above basement level? Throughout _everything_ that had happened down there...? Probably. It was enough for his abilities to begin flowing in the direction of his fingertips, even against his wishes.

Luckily for the Renautas agent, the elevator slid to a stop and the doors parted before anyone did anything unfortunate that they might regret later. The worker mumbled a hasty goodbye to Harris and practically pirouetted to freedom, his purple, sweaty head disappearing down the corridor. Sylar let out the tense breath he'd been holding. So _that_ went well. At least they hadn't been revealed! No thanks to _someone_...

The instant the doors closed over and the elevator continued its descent, the ex-murderer turned to his mirror image, eyes slightly seething.

“ _'Hold the elevator?_ ' Jesus, Peter.”

“I'm sorry – I didn't think – I just...” The other man trailed off, shrugging shyly with large, guilty eyes shining through the facade. He looked _so_ unlike Harris that the guy beneath was on clear display for all to see. And although Sylar wanted to stay angry, and although he was extremely aware of where he was and what was no doubt racing to meet them head on, he couldn't help it: he started laughing.

The sound was unfamiliar. Even though it came from within the motherfucker Harris, it was a nice remedy for the severity of this mission. It was allowed in this small box only, where nobody and nothing could get to them. Guilt faded from the second Harris' face, only to be replaced by a patient, half-grudging acquiescence. He still looked like Peter Petrelli, the man's kind heart and goodness too bright to be hidden even behind such a mask. It reassured and sobered Sylar at the same time.

He looked at his equally stressed out companion, forcing the smile to fall from his lips. “You look too nice, Peter. You better fix that.” He was unable not to enjoy the indignant expression that erased Peter's previous one, then the replacement one of concentration, then finally a strong, steady grimace that worked perfectly for this ruse.

But then the elevator slowed once again. And the temperature definitely dropped. The slight reprieve ended with a _ping_ and the doors brushed apart, the duo finding themselves staring down a dark, concrete tunnel with blacked out windows at either side. The only thing left to enjoy down here was the sickening sensation of dread.

*

The corridor was empty. Bare and cold and yawning out ahead until darkness consumed the weak overhead lights in the distance. There was nothing in sight yet Peter shivered, affected by everything but the chill. He couldn't believe they'd made it all the way here so fast. Only one more barrier stood in the way of the fated cell block, the end of the line.

The two evos didn't move a muscle. They barely even breathed. Both knew the second they set foot outside the elevator there was no going back. Peter could feel it tugging at him from the darkness: apprehension. Drawing him in deeper like wading through a tide. He knew without even looking beside him that Sylar could feel it too.

How could this place be so familiar, even though it had been years since he had even been close? So many horrors had transpired within these walls... murder, insanity, imprisonment within the body of a dangerous criminal, to name a few personal examples. Even just standing here, Peter could feel the memories clinging to his face and neck like clammy hands luring him under. Now that they had made it this far, and even though Peter knew it was all his own stupid idea, he wasn't so sure he even wanted to find out what kind of horrors would greet them on the other side of the next door.

Well... he'd gotten what he wanted, alright. To get into the enemy's base. Somewhere out there was the way to put an end to Renautas' success, or at least slow it down for a while, and it was _important_ that they do this...! Besides, it was a little late to have second thoughts.

Peter knew that Sylar was still suffering from his scare back at the casino. It had affected his confidence like the lingering affects of a virus, he could feel the weakened chinks in the chain that the other man usually held taut and impenetrable when it came to the point of action. So, raising his chin and standing up tall, taller than he was used to, Peter ignored the butterflies partying in his gut and took the fall for them both by dropping one heavy boot onto the concrete.

The step echoed against the void. Then nothing happened. No ghosts appeared out of thin air, no faces pressed up against the tinted windows, snarling or staring or screaming for help... it was just an empty corridor. As silent as the grave.

Until a deep _clunk_ of a door opening up ahead vibrated through the very ground.

...That was it. The cut off point of Micah's all-seeing eyes. Through that door they would be locked inside Level 6 with the cell block and ancient history and whatever information they found. Through that door they were on their own.

Peter couldn't be sure of what exactly lay ahead. But one thing he was certain of was how grateful he was for the kid sitting alone with his laptop back in Isaac's empty loft, sneaking them through the cracks in the impossible design with such ease. It was the simplest kind of encouragement just to have someone else on the team.

Losing feeling in his legs, Peter took a second to meet eyes with Sylar-Harris once again. It was creepier in the dark. Harder to distinguish his friend underneath the disguise.

“C'mon.” He murmured. Lightly pulling on the other man's forearm, he guided him into the awaiting darkness while trying to recover his determination from before. It wasn't quite as easy the second time.

***

“I thought I told you never to call me again.”

Noah had barely made himself comfortable at the window of the conference room before the door opened and closed behind him. He took his time turning around, for once allowing a true smile to filter onto his face at such a... friendly reunion.

“You'd better have a good reason for dragging me out here, Noah.”

His guest's voice was sharp but disguised under layers of pretence and swagger, much like the woman herself: a vision in bold sapphire, she held herself tall and proud despite being disgruntled at the summoning.

“I just realised I never thanked you for... saving my life back at the carnival.” Noah's smile deepened. “I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you, Ms Strauss.”

Tracy impatiently flipped her hair over her shoulder. “A gift basket would've sufficed.” She swished her hips as she clip-clopped across the conference room – much to the delight of Agent Stevens' prying eyes on the other side of the glass wall (yet another disadvantage to modern décor, Noah noted).

“You've been hard to reach. I wouldn't know where to send it.” He tapped a control panel on his side of the room, causing the sheer partition to fog up and provide some privacy. Then he met Tracy at the large table in the middle of the floor, choosing to perch upon the edge of it while she hovered just outside the reach of a handshake. Despite himself, the middle-aged man was surprised by how nice it was to see her again. “How about a job instead?”

Tracy's eyes widened microscopically, but not as much as they would have had she not anticipated this move. It was only a fleeting moment, then she chuckled, taking off again and sashaying her way around the room. She appeared to think over the generous offer, trailing a hand over the backs of the empty chairs encircling the table. Noah didn't flinch. He knew he'd get what he wanted, otherwise she wouldn't have shown up to the meeting. This woman was certainly... strong-willed when she wanted to be. She didn't like not calling the shots around her, which was exactly why Noah knew she was going to accept the job.

The old world, pre-Sullivan Bros. Carnival, was gone, and so were Tracy's days of overpriced martinis with the governor after hours. Noah was aware that almost all corporations were extensively screening their employees for unregistered abilities, and aware that living an... outed life amongst her old colleagues would destroy this woman. He knew she was currently unemployed. He knew she had been since Claire's jump. And Tracy's lifestyle, if anything, could be called far from inexpensive.

“I see you've come up in the world.” She sighed. “This is quite an upgrade to your place back in Washington...” Noah tried not to shift on the hard edge of the table. Still, it was more comfortable than the “chairs”.

“Can't complain.” He smirked. “Pay's good. Coffee's even better.” Calling up a document on his obligatory tablet, he slid the thing clear across the glossy table surface.

An uncharacteristically unmanicured hand caught the device. As Noah waited patiently for Tracy to process the magnitude of her starting salary, the building sang and chattered around them, sounds he knew all too well interlaced with technobabble. After only a few seconds the woman straightened up and flicked her hair again. She surveyed Noah with a pout and intelligent eyes, lips parted in a wary, questioning laugh that was short lived.

“What is this? That kinda money...? You must want me for more than my charm and way with investors.”

Raising his eyebrows, Noah spoke before she could voice the protest he could see coming. “I need you on my team, Tracy. I can count on you to get the job done more than the recruits Erica Kravid is having trained. Your skills are invaluable, not to mention I know how you work. We make quite a team, you and I, don't we?”

The woman's pretty face dropped most pretence of calm. For the first time today, she looked like the tormented soul she'd been once before, the one who'd decided to spare Noah's life rather than end it. She glanced around furtively, as if to make sure the clouded glass walls were doing their job. “I'm not an idiot, Noah. I know that behind a multi-million dollar renovation and a killer PR team, this is just Primatech and Pinehearst all over again. I know what you want but I... I don't do that anymore.” She stated, voice low and deep with resolve. “Not since that night.”

“So you found a way to control it? I'm impressed.”

Tracy fidgeted with the edge of the table and drew in a breath, changing direction. Her eyes were piercing when they returned to Noah's, interlaced with promise. “Listen: I won't hurt anyone again.”

Fortunately Noah had been anticipating this. It was hardly his first time around the block. “I understand that, Tracy, but we're trying to do the right thing here. We're trying to create the best future possible for everyone, between... people like me and people like you.”

“You think I haven't heard that spiel before? Then some madman's idea of a “better future” is trying to bury thousands of people beneath Central Park?”

Noah sighed. “Samuel Sullivan is a disturbed individual, that's why he'll be staring at padded walls for a _long_ time. Renautas is different. And working here, you'd be in the best place possible for you to manage your ability between jobs.” He spoke kindly, employing the understanding touch to his features reserved only for persuasion. “...Nobody else has to get hurt, but they will unless _we_ stop the bad guys. I'd really appreciate your help on this one. Then... after, you can transfer to a department you'll be more comfortable in. Big office, great view, healthy Christmas bonus... what d'you say?”

Tracy tore her attention from Noah, casting it around the conference room and wall-sized window as if looking for a way out. But she was turning. She was creeping over to his side, he could tell.

Finally she sighed, stabbing Noah with a wary gaze. “Why are you doing this? After the things I've done? I don't deserve it.”

It was touching that the remorse was still bothering her. Noah didn't spend enough time with good people nowadays for that not to be a luxury. It would definitely be worthwhile to have Tracy around more often.

He smiled, the most genuine motion all day. “Because in a world like this one, it pays to look out for your friends.”

It was a visual transformation when she came to her decision, a sight to behold, one Agent Stevens probably wouldn't be able to handle. Within a matter of seconds, Miss Strauss evolved from a haunted evo with a stained past into a beautiful woman who was a force to be reckoned with. Her sapphire blue dress seemed to become more vibrant and her hair more golden as those lips once again formed into an upturned pout that refused to spill its secrets.

“Tell me more.”

***

How many times had he died in here? Sylar couldn't even be sure.

At the very least, he'd been stabbed in the head, shot in the chest, had his neck snapped and been tortured to the brink of death repeatedly. He still didn't know exactly how many times they'd revived him during his first... stay. Within these walls he'd never been anything but a prisoner. A test subject. A fool.

He tried not to allow the past to consume him as he pressed down Level 6 in step with Peter, but the vacant corridor teased him and the cells haunted him like an endless row of gaping rib cages. The windows all looked into identical, empty rooms – eerily so. Was this a good or a bad thing, considering Renautas were definitely kidnapping people?

The pair crept silently along the row of cells, side by side. There had been a time when Sylar had sealed himself in one of them willingly. For his “family”. Because it would make his “parents” happy and proud of him if he showed them he could do as he was told... Even his last recollection of this place (before burning inside the building of course) was being responsible for blazing it to the ground.

There were no good memories in here. None.

Things were just the same one floor down as they had been on Level 5, including the echoing _thuds_ of shoes on cement, the design and layout of the cells, and even the biggest, sturdiest one at the end of the row, the one that had no observation window... and just happened to be Peter and Sylar's destination, of course.

The recovering killer shivered in Harris' skin as he and Peter stopped before the cell Micah had highlighted for them on the blueprint. It looked ominous even though there was nothing but a door and an old keypad. That was it? No precautions? No tests? No insurance policy? Just an electronic lock on the door like back in the good ol' days. It was obscenely easy. So much that Sylar felt even more unsettled than he would had they come across a trap that would finish them.

So they'd made it? Just like that? This was supposed to be their most dangerous mission yet! He couldn't find the faith to relax or get cocky at reaching the crest of their journey, not when the impending fall was looming ever closer. The lock on the door was open: one last gift from a technopathic guardian angel. And that, if nothing else, Sylar could trust.

*

“You doing okay?” Peter spoke in hushed tones to compliment the silence, but the other man startled as if someone had screamed in his ear. Peter instantly regretted asking. It wasn't like he even needed the answer to know the reply.

“Let's just do this so we can get out.”

The friends looked at each other for a long, stolen second, hoisting the other up for duty. Peter drank in the darkness of Harris' eyes opposite him, the irises almost the same shade as the watchmaker's own but lacking the tiny flecks of amber and green. He wasn't sure he could do this without Sylar's courage.

They were both hesitating. Peter felt words tiptoeing along the tip of his tongue even though he didn't even know what he was going to say. But before he could try, the other deep, soft-spoken voice whispered along the depths of the corridor.

*

“I'm glad you're with me.”

It didn't matter if it sounded sappy. Sylar didn't care. He just felt stronger in this company and he wanted Peter to know it. Nobody else would hear. Nobody else would care, anyway. It was just the two of them hidden in the dark and cold, and somehow the watchmaker didn't feel the usual need to hide his affection behind sarcasm and a smirk.

They were two very different things indeed: to plot the breaking and entering of the facility because it was the next logical course of action; and then to actually stand here in the flesh, breathing in the dusty smell of cement and regret. It could so easily be impossible to physically put himself into one of those cells again, after everything he'd both encountered and _done_ in there. And he knew it would have been if he didn't have Peter beside him.

“'Course.” Harris' face warmed around the edges, and his mouth curved up into a small, grateful smile that was trying not to be nervous and was, for once, symmetrical. Sylar didn't see it though, because all he could see was that expression the way it really would be on the empath's own face. It made him feel braver to be looked at that way.

Okay, now _that_ was too sappy. Kicking himself back into business-mode and determined to get this over with as soon as possible, Sylar nodded at where Peter's hand lay on the door handle. So the other guy steeled himself, then clunked and clinked it open. Together they melted into the darkness within the cavern, the door sealing shut behind them.

*

Overhead lights flickered to life, prolonging the state of the unknown. Blinking in the brightness, Peter didn't know what to expect to find: screens with stolen footage upon them; fancy tech weapons of Renautas' own design; hopefully not a _human_ weapon the likes of some poor evo being trapped in here for months...? But no. When his vision adjusted he doubted himself. Because if he was seeing this correctly – then Noah's big, bad, benevolent weapon against them was... paper.

Oh. Just paper cluttering an empty cell. Stacks and stacks of the stuff compiling an entire operation: it was slathered over the walls, piled on surfaces or just left lying around the place in total disregard. Hand-written notes, printed pages and photographs were mixed together, seemingly with no reason or design beyond their shared subjects.

The room stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the rest of Renautas' aesthetic – in here there was such a thing as “mess”, as mistakes and do-overs and failures that hadn't been quickly swept under the rug. Peter couldn't even see one piece of tech amongst the case files, which at the very least explained why Micah couldn't get in. It was... not what he had been imagining, in any case. It wasn't what could be described as organized. No, it was a work in progress. A look into the mind of an obsessed hunter.

The anticipation of a fight faded quickly, and instead Peter felt almost muted as his eyes struggled to process everything at once. He was grotesquely out of place in here, like a spaceman amongst dinosaurs intruding upon a land he was never supposed to witness. It was months of dedicated work. Noah had really gone to all this effort to take them down...? How could he even begin to process that?

“Peter...”

The empath glanced over at his companion, both of them shimmering back into their own appearances now that they were out of sight of any cameras. Sylar's face was a welcome sight, familiar and so much easier to read when not smothered under a disguise. The only problem was that Peter could read it too well.

He felt his stomach plummet further even before following the watchmaker's line of sight, clocking the far wall of the cell with a lump in his throat: for pasted over almost the entirety of it were no less than every one of the prophetic drawings he and Sylar had created the night after the carnival.

So Noah _had_ found the pages after the oil rig? It wasn't that much of a shock, but the confirmation still packed a punch all the same. The duo waded through the room towards the display, expressions hardening as they drew near. The drawings looked much more impressive presented like this than they had cluttered over Sylar's carpet or under Peter's mattress those months ago... but they were definitely the same.

Peter gazed, transfixed by the wallpaper of his own artwork. He could remember making them so vividly, back when none had made any sense and the images had just been vague predictions of a time still to come. Now, he recognised not just the drawings themselves, but the events they depicted – the real, live moments that he had lived through since: the rig, the casino, even the rooftop that same night... There were some, of course, that were less familiar. There was even a handful that he didn't remember making at all...

And now Noah had them. Every last one. The whole thing formed an uncomfortable knot in the pit of his stomach.

*

So _this_ was how Renautas had kept showing up these past few months? How Noah always knew where they were going to be? He was playing them at their own game and using the future to catch them?! Sylar had to admit (as much as he hated it), it was a pretty good move.

It was also repulsive. But not as repulsive as the rest of the collection filling the room. He turned his back on the drawings to instead absorb the rest of the place: a shrine, Sylar noticed, to almost every single deed he and Peter had committed since saving the Sullivan Bros. Carnival together. What the hell had the guy been _doing_ with his life to have generated all this?! Most of the paper was compiled of past mission documents, torn or crossed out after they'd proved inadequate, the odd few creased as if they'd been crumpled and later salvaged. But it was a particular assortment of folders that caught Sylar's focus. One that made his blood chill.

He moved slowly, staring with eyes jaded by a thousand past horrors. Sylar approached the documents piled upon a solitary desk, hands moving softly over the surface... his fingers trailed across dog-eared pages, stroked the raised words on others and automatically healed from more than one paper cut before they could even start stinging.

Ink stood out livid from the pages in the brightly lit cell, random thoughts and ideas captured in the heat of the moment then further developed into fully-fledged schemes. There were drawings as well, terrible ones to be polite, but the quality of penmanship didn't diminish the meaning behind them. Unfortunately.

*

Fidgeting in agitation, Peter rubbed at his chin, then his forehead, then his hair, trying to absorb the full scale of their findings. It felt like it was going to be revealed as a joke any second, that the cardboard walls would drop and they'd find themselves in Noah's _real_ working space. But it didn't happen.

They'd come all the way and surpassed the best security system in the world just for this? What could they hope to gain from it? They couldn't carry all these files away. They couldn't find anything, even, that Micah could use to protect his other charges. There was nothing worthwhile they could do other than render the room to ashes to stop Noah's progress, but even that meant losing any potential object of value. And those other drawings – the new ones, the odd ones out that he didn't remember – they still didn't sit right with Peter. He couldn't put his finger on the source of such unease, but it was there all the same. They were jarring compared to the others, imposters, like a predator laying in disguise amongst the prey just before the kill...

A stuttered release of breath at his back rescued Peter from his tumbling thoughts. Grateful for the distraction, he crossed to Sylar with a frown heavy on his brow and peeked around the other man's shoulder at the document in his hands.

Then he made the exact same sound that Sylar had five seconds ago. Even if the annotations hadn't been nearly illegible, he would still be able to recognise the plotting of his own demise.

It was... plans. Designs. The formula for an upcoming contraption – a harness of sorts, a cage that could contain powerful evos despite their abilities, long enough for Renautas to work out how to kill them for good. Accompanied by detailed descriptions of all the gruesome ways they could attempt it. There was no mention of specific targets in mind, but it didn't take a genius and his empathetic companion long to fill in the blanks for themselves.

Feeling sick, Peter tugged the pages out of Sylar's hand and dropped them out of sight on the desk. The taller man swayed slightly with the motion, otherwise he didn't respond further than his shoulders rising to his ears.

Peter sucked in a deep breath, grinding his teeth. There were no comforting words to make it okay or to pretend they'd never seen such a forecast. It could barely even process, the fact of the matter, the connotations of it, the loose ends that didn't fit the structure at all... Of all things, Peter thought of Lucia. That kind woman from the casino. He remembered what he'd told her of his friends and family, how freshly the reminder of their total disinheritance had hurt all over again because he'd given it a voice for the first time in weeks... He'd thought the pain was bad then? Yeah, that was nothing compared to this.

*

Peter croaked, as if to speak, but nothing slipped out of his once again asymmetrical lips. The lack of words ricochetted through to Sylar's core. He felt exactly the same.

Looking down into his companion's wounded eyes, the guy's creased forehead and pouted lower lip that betrayed the set to his jaw, Sylar wished that he, himself, didn't look as dejected in return. He wished he could honestly tell Peter that his family probably didn't have a hand in it, or that his friends were just following orders from above, that it wasn't personal. But he couldn't contain the look on his face. Just like he couldn't contain the unfortunate truth that spilled from his lips.

“It's because they're afraid of us, Peter.”

The empath frowned only deeper, a dark lock of hair falling across his welling eyes and making him look even more lost than usual. Really, Sylar couldn't blame him. The new contraption wasn't much of a surprise for the ex-villain, it followed the rest of the Company's plans for him very nicely. Peter, meanwhile, had never been outside the safety circle of Primatech's resolve. He didn't know the extent of what they were capable of first hand. But now that his alliance had switched, it seemed his standing within the ranks had too. Sylar only wished that he didn't have to be responsible for dragging the guy down to his level.

He rolled his shoulders and stood up tall in defiance of this room and everything it represented. It was the best he could do to protect himself from the sickly ideas snaking around his joints like chains. For his friend, meanwhile, Sylar gently touched just his fingertips to Peter's upper arm.

“You, me, together? They're intimidated by that.” He continued, voice bitter but soft. Then a misplaced glint of pride overflowed from inside and onto his features, meant for Peter. Meant for _them_. “Renautas want to destroy anything they can't control... and they can't control _us_.”

In spite of everything, or perhaps _to_ spite it, Sylar let his lips take on a slight upward curve. It looked like Peter's tried to copy, but the guy couldn't stop trying to contain his hurt long enough to finish the motion. His mouth formed a single syllable that his voice apparently refused to follow through. “...Yeah.”

It was a lifeline in the middle of a storm. Something flimsy to cling to and hope for the best. Fuck Noah. Fuck Renautas. Fuck this whole room. It didn't have to change anything between Peter and Sylar. The truth of their rebellion was the only thing that made the rest of this bullshit okay, because Sylar _knew_ they wouldn't give in, they wouldn't conform no matter how loudly Renautas howled. It wasn't pretty to stand alone on the opposing team, but that didn't mean they weren't familiar with it. It didn't mean they couldn't do it. At least they still had that to hold onto.

“Yeah, I wouldn't be so sure about that.”

A third voice sliced through the cell: an intruder, unseen, unheard by the two wanted fugitives until it was to late. The door loudly sealed shut again, and instantly Sylar summoned sparks to his palms, ready to fight and ready to panic at being caught-!

Then that desire was quickly plucked from his mind as if by deft fingers. Electricity flickered, forgotten in his hand, and he stared, that newfound confidence retreating back the way it had come when confronted by one of the last people Sylar would hope to encounter ever again.

The figure blocking the only exit looked the same as last time Sylar had seen him, right down to the malicious spark in his eye. But there was definitely something different about the man, something nasty. Like a large shadow overhead or hideous wings that could be felt but not seen. And suddenly Sylar remembered how much he disliked this person and how much he was disliked in return. Oh fuck.

Beside him, Peter gasped. “ _Matt..._?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading guys! This is part one of two for today, I didn't even realise until I went to post the new chapter that it's 29 pages! Yikes! So I thought it was probably best to split it here X) Please let me know what you think, and keep reading for the rest of the update ^.^


	16. Mind Games

Matt Parkman acknowledged the younger man with a tip of his chin. “Peter.” He made no movement the second time, didn't even look at the silent son of a bitch who was just standing there like he had every right. “...Gabriel.”

The young Petrelli continued to just stare, as if he'd have been less surprised to find it had been Mr Muggles who had just spoken. Apparently he was now stunned almost speechless at being found infiltrating a high security vault, as if Matt wasn't a threat that needed dealing with. As if he wasn't something to worry about. Please.

“Matt, what're you _doing_ here?”

“More importantly, how did you find us?” Sylar jabbed, just as Matt had hoped he would.

The telepath huffed in triumph and plopped both hands on his hips. “You can hide your faces, but you can't hide your thoughts. Not from me.” Raising both eyebrows, he digested the sight of these two particular men standing side by side, united just as they were the last time he'd seen them. He'd know them anywhere. In any form.

For the first time he locked eyes with the killer, not enough to grant him such decency, but long enough to see he looked locked to the spot, coiled like a spring that was yet to burst. But above all, he leaked the most glorious substance that Matt could have asked for in this situation: raw, vulnerable apprehension.

It was grotesquely satisfying to catch them in the act. Matt almost wished he could take a photo of their priceless reactions for proof: both stunned to have been bested by a lowly cop after they'd evidentially made it past every other precaution in the building so far. Matt relished the thought of the two Houdinis that the entire department had been hunting for months getting caught by him in his first week of the job... Noah company man Bennet couldn't do in half a year what Matt washed-up failure Parkman could in days? Oh yeah, it was a fun idea. Fun enough to overpower the unease at standing before the duo again. Fun enough to prolong setting off the alarm right this instant so Matt could have his moment. It was personal, after all. Not to mention long overdue.

“...You're working for them.” Wishing he didn't feel the slight niggling of guilt, Matt watched as Peter (a little slow on the uptake, naturally) struggled to process another betrayal. The tender process was mapped all over his face, and it would've been crushing if Matt still held the same respect for the guy that he'd used to. Sylar, on the other hand, descended into forced, cold laughter that was swallowed up by the surrounding paper insulation.

“Don't tell me you're now raping minds for the highest bidder, Parkman? We should feel special, Peter, we got it done for free!”

Matt just stood his ground and didn't even twitch. Didn't bother denying it. Sure, he didn't like Sylar's choice of word for his... ministrations, but even now he wasn't ashamed and didn't regret what he'd done the last time he'd met the fucker.

“I'm doing the smart thing.”

He ignored the nasty prickle on the back of his neck that accompanied seeing Peter and Sylar together again right before him. They were no longer just two initiates of the small circle of specials in the know, or mortal enemies hell bent on taking the other down – now they were media frenzied vigilantes on the cusp of becoming icons. It was wrong on so many levels.

“I have a family to support and Renautas happen to be appreciative of what I can do.” The telepath continued. He didn't imagine Peter's eyes flicking to Matt's contributions to the wall of prophetic drawings, one of which foretold this very scene. “Like it or not: people like us? We're outcasts now. What the hell else am I gonna do with my ability? Go on the run? Waste away in a cell somewhere and miss my son grow up? Yeah, right.”

*

Peter couldn't believe his eyes. Or his ears. Couldn't believe what his heart was telling him. He'd wanted so badly for his former ally to have at least _tried_ to redeem himself after the mess that had transpired in his basement. He'd just taken it for granted that the guy would have tried to better himself after falling so far from grace – wouldn't anyone?!

But now these thoughts seemed even more ridiculous than the idea of living a secret life inside someone else's head for years on end. Matt was working against them. He was conspiring with Noah, he was even chasing them through canvas with his prophetic ability like it didn't mean anything! Was this what high-security operations had been going on down here? Matt was Renautas' secret weapon...? The look that he was currently burning into Peter certainly didn't feel at all like that of an old friend. It was almost exactly the same look Peter received from his lost family every time he closed his eyes.

And so another one bites the dust.

“Matt...” He croaked huskily, feeling his lips tighten and brow lower. He was still half-sure this wasn't really happening. Crunching his way across paper, he grasped the bigger man's arm with numb fingers and channelled his sincerity through the fabric of Matt's shirt sleeve. “Why are you _doing_ this? How could you work for them? They're rounding up people with abilities! Don't you remember how that _feels_?”

The cop sighed down at him, looking pointedly and with no shame in his eyes. It was an expression that shocked even more discomfort straight through Peter's arteries, so disapproving that it wouldn't have been out of place on the face of one Arthur Petrelli.

“What can I say? Some of them deserve it.”

*

A twist of emotion bolted Sylar, like the electric volts currently twirling around his fingers. He couldn't discern if the ache was simply rage at Matt's accusation, hurt when Peter's hand dropped back to his side, his own raw bruised feelings, or a mix of everything mashed together.

Matt still hadn't gifted him actual eye contact. It was a statement. It was also understandable, at its base level, like it had been when Micah had warmed to Peter and kept his distance from the scary boogey man who had threatened him in a past life. Understandable, yes, but at the same time it wasn't even eligible for comparison. So Saint Parkman was playing it _that_ way, was he? As if _he_ had done no wrong and was just a scarred victim here?! ...Well, okay, he _was_ , but he was far from the only one in this room!

When said “victim” finally _did_ deign to focus his attention on Sylar, it wasn't met with the same anxious hope that it had been when he'd earned Micah's. Instead, it was enough to set the watchmaker's scowl and heat his pulse beneath the weight of Matt's laden gaze, the gaze that Sylar refused to be the one to break.

“Parkman -” He cut off, reconsidering the best approach. It might have been given through gritted teeth, but at least he managed to muster up a single shred of decorum. “Matt. We're not hurting anyone. We're trying to do _good_ here.”

Matt scoffed. “You're dangerous, that's what you are.” His watery eyes darted between his two captives while his words rubbed more salt into the wound he had just sliced open. “This little superhero act you've got going? Showing off your abilities when the world has _barely_ even accepted we exist? Please – what did you think was gonna happen? Renautas is trying to keep the peace.”

“By getting rid ofeveryone who stands against them?!” Even from the back, Sylar could tell that Peter was fuelling his every thought at Matt through his transparent gaze. He knew the routine far too well to mistake, albeit from the receiving end. Who knew he'd ever be happy to see it come back into play? “They want to _kill_ us, Matt!” The little man threw a hand back to the desk, to where the plans of their personal torture device lay. “Who else? Huh? How many deaths can you be a part of?!”

Peter was so beautifully unashamed, unfiltered and true with his accusations. He was so oblivious, blinded yet again by his ties to his people and unable to see the simple fact of the matter that Sylar could decode in a heartbeat. He didn't doubt that Matt knew his new company were barbaric in their methods. He also didn't doubt that the cop didn't care. It was survival of the fittest, lying down loyalty to the alpha dog in hopes of being saved a scrap of the carcass at the end of the day. Parkman was clinging on to Renautas despite their sins simply because he wanted to save his own skin over everyone else's. And suddenly, Sylar hated the son of a bitch more right then than he ever had as a self-serving “hero” who had deluded himself into believing he was doing the right thing.

“This isn't about anyone else.” The “good family man” was barely swayed by Peter's heartfelt confrontation, the same type that hadn't failed to affect Sylar even when he'd been near his worst. “This is about _you._ You can't be left unchecked, not with _that_ kinda power.” Matt cast his eyes around the stuffed cell, shaking his head tightly as if it could negate any opposition. “You're too powerful. You have to be contained.”

A sudden swoop of guilt and rage made it difficult for Sylar to keep hold of his manners any longer. Electricity surged in his lofted palm.

“Oh, right, “contained”!”

He spat, his tone so sharp it cut his tongue on the way out. He knew he should probably be trying to validate his argument with patience, like he had attempted last time when he had chosen to be the bigger person and overlook the cop's dark deeds – but look where _that_ had gotten him! Matt had thrown him out on his ass like a piece of trash after forcing him through the toughest ordeal of his existence, and now Sylar wasn't feeling anywhere near as gracious.

“Is this you selling out your basement as well as your morality?”

Matt barked out a laugh. “Really? _You_ wanna talk about morality?” Another malicious spark flashed and was gone in the man's eye, causing Sylar to shiver and close his mouth over his next biting retort. Maybe that hadn't been the best word to throw into the equation...? Matt's already flushed face began to darken from the neck up, as beads of sweat began to dew across his brow. “I don't think so. You might've fooled Peter with this “peace and love” crap, you might even have fooled yourself! But I tell you – you're not gonna fool me. Never again.”

All it took was the briefest of seconds to destabilise Sylar, leaving him drifting helplessly like a ship who's mast had been blown off. Because he had just realised something new, something worse, something that only increased his aversion to his self-righteous captor and everything he represented. Suddenly he felt ridiculous for not seeing it sooner: because even Matt, the founder of his evolution, didn't believe he'd changed.

*

Peter frowned and averted his face, crinkling a few steps further back from Matt. He should have known better than to not expect things to revert from the topic of the cop's descent... to this. Fuck.

Even after all this time since the carnival, even though this man was the only outsider who was privy to the full picture, he was _still_ burying his head so far beneath hatred and denial...? He was just like the rest of them. Only _he_ didn't have the excuse of ignorance on his side. The ugly truth of the matter was suddenly so clear, although Peter wished it wasn't: Matt had chosen the wrong side by choice, and Sylar had been right about him all along... he wasn't a good guy anymore.

Peter growled, raking his fingers through his hair for lack of something better to do. “We don't have to listen to this...”

This wasn't why they were here! They hadn't come all this way just to endure another lecture, another knife to the back! They could run out and never look back, if only Matt wasn't guaranteed to call for backup the very next second... Caught between either marching into the telepath's face or dragging Sylar out of the cell by the scruff of the neck if need be, Peter fought to bite back the anger that was beginning to cloud his brain function. It was difficult, but the biggest red flag should have been recognisable from any state of mind: that one opponent was much more favourable than hundreds. As it was, Peter found himself simply unable to storm out on his old friend in this way.

Jesus, how many times did he have to say these words? He'd come to terms with it by now, of course, but in all this time he'd never once expected to have to say them to _this_ person. He wasn't going to argue again. He wasn't going to plead for this guy to believe him if he couldn't even be convinced by his own eyes and ability! Eventually Peter settled on the spot between both other men, his hair pushed out of his eyes in order to watch the larger of the two with unobstructed clarity. “Sylar's changed, Matt.” He insisted quietly, sternly. “I saw it. You looked inside his mind, _you_ saw it too. You _know_ what happened, why are you denying it?”

Again, Matt lofted both eyebrows in order to look down his nose at his charges.

“I saw a lotta things inside his sadistic mind.” Peter's heart sank lower. He couldn't stop the cop from speaking the next words directly over his head at Sylar, alone. “Just because he wants to weasel outta everything he's done doesn't make him a good person. And it doesn't mean he deserves to walk free.” Without tearing his attention away, the cop increased the amount of daggers in his glare. His eyes were on Sylar, but the words weren't directed that way. “I lived with him inside my head, Peter. I know _exactly_ what he's capable of.”

*

Forget the cell. Forget the greedy corporation who's gut he had wormed his way into, because suddenly Sylar wasn't surrounded by death plans for himself and his only friend in one of Primatech's old cells devoted to taking them down. No. Instead he was thrown back in time to Parkman's kitchen, and Sylar's first minute of freedom as his new self, to when he'd just had his fragile hopes of trust shattered anew for the very first time. It probably wasn't supposed to hurt as much now as it had last December, but it did.

He winced at Matt's words, a barely noticeable shiver as uninvited memories swarmed him in vivid detail. Confusion, rage, terror; the chest-crushing weight of being unable to move or even feel his own body; being imprisoned, being ignored, being worse than dead because he didn't even exist except in the consciousness of a man who'd tried to erase every particle of him for good.

The ex-villain's stomach squirmed. He was well aware that he'd been especially horrible while confined to Matt's mind. Endangering the man's job, threatening his baby and fucking his wife probably hadn't been very good ideas in retrospect. But that was nothing compared to what Matt had done to _him._ Sylar had only been scared and powerless and furious, and all he'd had were words and a tiny amount of leverage that he had manipulated vehemently just to prove that he wasn't a ghost. Yeah, Sylar had really been awful back then. He wouldn't do it again if the chance presented itself. But even now, while stewing under that nasty, beady gaze... he wasn't even sure he regretted it.

He had _so_ much to say in response, but too much of it would only start a fight. If Matt had only helped him when he'd asked, or if he'd talked him through the out-of-body experience instead of being such a smug bastard – if he'd even minded his own fucking business instead of butting in to play god at the Stanton Hotel! – then Sylar would never have wasted any energy on him! He hadn't wanted to be there. He'd never had a choice in the matter. It was Matt's own fault and Matt's own decisions that sparked these reactions, because what the fuck else could Sylar have done...?! It still made him furious to even glance in the direction of the blame game while the arrow was locked constantly onto his position, regardless of circumstance.

But now was _not_ the time to get angry. And so, if only because the current scenario was a tender one, the ex murderer swallowed back down all of the details that could even almost justify his actions.

Finally, the last embers of electricity burned themselves out, leaving only smoking tendrils rising from his palm. The latch to his voice released at last, freeing a genuine, honest but hoarse sound. It almost hurt Sylar to hear himself, but the touch of resentment didn't go undetected. “I know what I did back then, Parkman. I know it was wrong. But I was angry and trapped and I know that doesn't make it okay but it's true. I can't take it back and I can't fix it. But I am _not_ that guy anymore.”

Matt's expression barely flickered, yet darker splodges of puce began blooming across his cheeks. “You're a monster. Sylar. You think you're out there “saving the day”, but what happens when you lose your patience, huh? Or – or you lose your temper and someone ends up dead?! You haven't changed, you're just a ticking bomb. An accident waiting to happen. I don't give a crap about your excuses; you can never come back from the things you've done.”

Every word walloped Sylar like the reverberating twang of a bow. On the outside, the repentant murderer closed off his emotions with a concrete expression. On the inside, he was so shaken that he completely forgot to be angry.

He automatically hunched in on himself, shaking hands seeking refuge in his pockets and itching eyes dropping to the paper-littered ground of their own accord. Matt's observation, the one of a literal _mind reader,_ sent alarm bells blaring through him like teeth gnawing on his bones. The last time, Matt had cast aside Sylar while all he'd wanted was a chance to make up for the horrific ordeals he was responsible for. And yeah, it had stung more than he would ever admit aloud even though he knew Matt's continued allegations were false, although justified.

...But now, after _months_ of hero duty and behaving himself and trying desperately to prove he was more than he used to be... after failed missions and rogue abilities and that _incident_ back at the casino that was still clinging to Sylar's skin like a grimy film... This time, he couldn't help but question himself. He couldn't help but question the words of the man who could read even the furthest corners of his mind... what if Matt was _right_?

*

“You're wrong about him.”

Peter Petrelli fumed at the person he could no longer recognise. Where was the family man who had fought by his side on more than one occasion? Where was the flawed, but generally good guy, who Peter had once known to go out of his way to do the right thing? He didn't know him anymore.

Surprisingly, it wasn't shame that bubbled inside his ribcage, but protective rage. Of all the times for Sylar's confidence to take a hit, it had to be when his defences were already damaged! Of course Matt had a point, and it wasn't as if his claims were founded on nothing, but things were different now! Peter couldn't un-see his only friend's pain atop the Devaux rooftop, or un-feel his clammy hand as they'd teleported home from Linderman's casino, nor his scarred and trembling soul from that night after the carnival way back when. He knew the whole almost-murder thing was still eroding away inside the other man, and he was _not_ going to let Matt fuck Sylar up more than he already had!

Fuelled by determination instead of regret, Peter turned his back for good on his old ally. He then didn't falter until he'd taken up stance beside his old enemy at the other side of the cell, now his responsibility, his friend. He slipped a hand around the crook of Sylar's elbow, spurned on by the sight of the taller man's naked dismay that he would hate to have intruded upon by a third party.

Peter tried not to snarl. “You're _wrong_.” He repeated, scowling across the cell at the outsider.

*

The touch was only a small motion between the pair but, with a twitch of admission, Sylar didn't let it go unnoticed. And with a choked, spluttering sound of disdain, neither did Matt.

“Oh – c'mon! You can't be serious?!”

It was preposterous. Peter really couldn't tell the difference between dreams and the waking world? He'd had _months_ to get over the “nightmare”, months to come back to his senses, or at least test the boundaries of them! No way had Matt expected him to still be so deluded – surely by now there would be _some_ cracks showing through the facade...?

Rubbing gathered sweat from his top lip, Matt prowled towards the pair with no care to their fearsome array of powers. “This is _Sylar_ we're talking about, Peter! He murdered Nathan in cold blood and - what, you spend a few hours in la la land and suddenly you actually _trust_ him?!”

Peter's voice and face hardened as Matt drew closer. “Yes. I do.”

He said it boldly. He was unashamed to declare it out in the open. If Matt couldn't sense the definitive hum reverberating from the empath's awareness, he might have believed the guy had gone totally mad. As it was, he was leaking the telltale aura of the promise that defined him – that he was willing to fight to the death for his cause. And that was never a good thing to be on the wrong side of.

Oh, hell.

“Wow...” Matt sighed. It wasn't that he _wanted_ to do it, per se. It was that this was his only weapon against the two most powerful people he had ever known. Flaunting his superiority had gotten him less satisfaction than he'd hoped, and he guessed he'd better get the show on the road before the other men tried to overpower him and void this victory. He should really sound the alarm, or call for back-up, Matt knew. But he also knew that he still wasn't done here, and that he'd never forgive himself if he gave up now.

So with only slight hesitation, he wiped a hand over his perspiring brow, shot an unbreakable glare at his two targets, and advanced upon them with both his physical and mental prowess.

*

“Matt...?”

Peter wanted to stubbornly stand his ground as the telepath approached, but somehow his legs carried him backward, Sylar in tow, like an automated response that he couldn't control. The purpose that had kept him tethered this far unravelled, and he floated through the cell without ever deciding to move...

“ _Wow._ ” The cop repeated. “This is worse than I thought.” Still _,_ he kept following and Peter and Sylar kept retreating, retreating further than the constraints of the cell would surely allow. “The two of you have seriously gotta get back to reality...”

_Bang!_ All breath and reasoning was knocked out of Peter as his back finally hit the wall. But not that of the cell. Instead it was a tall, red, unbreakable wall that didn't belong anywhere in this world.

His heart skipped a beat.

*

Holy shit.

Hands stroking over rough brick at his back, Sylar gaped, wide-eyed, around where the Renautas cell should have been but wasn't. Instead of stacks of paper and a reinforced door, there was only a wide alley stretching out before him, set between two towering buildings at either side. Everything was still. Silent. A full moon hung low in the night sky, illuminating a pile of broken sledgehammers discarded to the side, near an impressive mound of empty water bottles overspilling the dumpster...

Everything was exactly the same. Exactly as it had been left when its only two inhabitants had left this world behind. And suddenly that was all that mattered.

*

Matt refused to give an inch. He channelled the vision directly into the consciousnesses of the two men, like a drill searing relentlessly through wood. It repulsed him to witness the state they'd rendered his masterpiece design, because it was never supposed to be a haven or retreat or a private place for two enemies to work out their differences against all odds.

It wasn't supposed to have come back around to bite him in the ass. It was a lesson! It was all make-believe! And Matt was determined to make that point clear... one way or another.

It seemed to be working pretty nicely. The dream city was nothing too special to look at, Matt had to admit, but from their expressions alone you'd be mistaken for thinking the paramedic and serial killer were looking upon the long lost faces of their ancestors. They seemed to fit in right at home, continuing to drink in their old surroundings as if they'd forgotten all about Renautas and the fact that they could ruin Matt's triumph (yet again!) with only a twitch of a finger if they so wished.

“You see this? Huh?” He panted, throwing both arms at the translucent city around them. “You recognise it? Is this _home_...? Yeah, no – none of it's real!”

*

Oh god. In the corner of his mind Peter knew it was an illusion and didn't want to fall for it, but it still felt sinfully good to breathe this air again.

He tried to tune out Matt's curses before they knocked his legs out from under him. He couldn't help that his heart sang out for the familiar, the easy, that he felt the grime of reality fall away from him like cinders, or that he slipped back into this world like a penguin taking to water after waddling clumsily on land for too long.

Everything about this place welcomed him; the feeling of it, the smell, even the colour scheme soothed his eyes compared to the too vibrant hues of the real world. He recalled the many nights he'd dreamed of it since leaving, the occasional, grabbed minutes spent in the supply closet at work in order to try and replicate this setting, but somehow now it felt like he'd never even left. The only difference was the fragility of the mirage. It didn't sit as tightly as it used to, like the breeze was distorting the edges of this vision and sending ripples across the canvas. It was the same and it wasn't, it was outdated but not one second had aged the place, and Peter knew and resented what Matt was trying to do... but the truth of the matter was that he was too stunned right now to care.

*

“You get that? I _created_ this city, I know every part of it and I'm telling you it _doesn't exist..._ ”

Matt's chiding tone cascaded shivers down Sylar's spine. He couldn't be sure if it was in humiliation or the prelude to danger. The cop was skating on some pretty thin ice, but luckily for him Sylar was too pre-occupied and over stimulated to lock his attention onto more than one thing at once.

Chest heaving, organs swooping, he finally met Peter's equally round eyes. And everything came flooding back to him. It was bizarre but so natural to see the guy back in this habitat, where he appeared most at home, framed in dusty red against that wall. No, _the_ wall, the one at which so many days had blurred past, so many fights had transpired and mountains had been overcome to get to where they were today...

*

These bricks had bore witness to so much. More than Matt would ever acknowledge, even though they were of his own design and he, alone, answered their whispers. Every inch of this wall knew the true story, was standing proof of every day of torment, and if only the rest of the world could see it they'd understand –

“W-wait!” Peter gasped, so inspired that he momentarily dropped all hold on his anger. Using the wall at his back, he drew strength from the most reliable thing he'd ever known, enough to stand on his own two feet in the face of turmoil. It was such a practised skill by now that he didn't even notice he did it. “You can fix all this!”

*

Uh... what? Matt's swelling ego deflated like a burst balloon. All at once Peter snapped out of his spell and was filled to the brim with energy in a way Matt had yet to see him, ever. He pushed off from the wall, gesturing avidly with bright eyes and passion infused words that fell short at the telepath's feet, despite the strength with which they'd been thrown.

“It's not too late, Matt! You said so yourself you created this city, so just tell Renautas the truth then they've gotta believe us! Tell them about the dream, about Sylar coming to you for help – all of it! Tell them what happened, they _trust_ you!”

The words echoed on forever into the endless void. Then Matt snorted, slapping his hands helplessly by his sides and throwing a look the aforementioned murderer's way. “Is he for real?”

The still, sharp shape that was Gabriel Gray didn't respond beyond a flash of ever-watching eyes. Peter, meanwhile, nodded eagerly, like a trusting pet waiting for the apologetic treat that his owner had promised but never intended to give. Jeez.

*

All Matt had to do was corroborate Peter and Sylar's claims and it would make a world of difference! He was the _only_ other person who knew what had happened within the dank, creaking walls of his basement, the _only_ one who could confirm the story, and that changed everything!

At least, it should have done.

The last of Peter's hope took a fatal hit at the expulsion of a helpless laugh. “You want me to jeopardise my job, my life _and_ my family's lives by admitting _I'm_ responsible for putting you two together? D'you even know how freaked out they are about that...? Yeah, not gonna happen.” Matt wheezed, as if he couldn't believe Peter could be so naïve.

Getting desperate, the empath turned in one last ditch hope to find support in Sylar, only to receive the exact same expression from _him_ as from Matt, just without the ridicule. ...Seriously? That was it - “no” - and Peter was supposed to just be okay with that?! The dregs of his optimism died at last, only to be swiftly replaced by a burning chunk of coal blazing in his gut like a furnace.

Once again, Peter's anger broke the surface and re-flooded the banks on all sides. He suddenly felt like nothing more than a skinny, twelve year old kid, begging Nathan to own up to the mess of Arthur's study that had earned Peter two months' of being grounded and an angry red handprint on the back of his neck. At the time, Nathan at least had the excuse of “but he goes easy on you, Pete”, while today, right now, Peter couldn't sympathise with his adversary's reasoning in the slightest.

“But you have to help, Matt! You _did_ this to us!”

“I didn't do _that_ to you.” That coal only flared hotter under the disdainful eye that Matt rolled over Peter from head to toe. “You did enough on your own.”

*

Sure, Matt would admit that he perhaps should have thought again before just propping Peter Petrelli's sleeping form against that wall in his basement for all of time. He hadn't thought it through properly, but even if he had, he would never have anticipated the end result to the duo's shared dreamwalking.

Seeing them now, grimacing at the bad taste it left in his mouth, he looked at both the empath and killer in turn, then together. Peter stood nearer, jaw set and hands fisted at his sides, a foreground feature to the figure still shrouded by the wall, almost unreadable, locked up tight but still unnerving like a snake about to strike. Together they stood united in this lonely world of Matt's design; the one where Sylar the son of a bitch was supposed to _suffer_ eternally for his crimes, _not_ find salvation.

Matt once again planted his hands firmly on his hips, just to stop himself from flapping them about the place stupidly under such scrutiny. “Oh, c'mon! Y-you think I _wanted_ this to happen? H-how was I supposed to know you were gonna pop out playing at happy families? That was never part of the plan!”

“You left us in that place for _five years_!” Peter shouted through his teeth, his eyes on fire and the very air around him appearing to dance like water. “Was _that_ part of the plan?!”

*

Sylar really had to hand it to Peter. That he could keep his wits about him like he just had, that he could still form coherent words from coherent thoughts that weren't bottlenecking somewhere between his brain and mouth due to a bully picking on his most sensitive boo-boo.

Sylar had used to be stronger than this. He'd kept up a constant commentary through some of the most horrific acts imaginable, he'd even stared directly into Hiro's face while he'd described the nitty gritty details of Sylar's own death. Now he felt so violated by his insecurities that he could barely move a muscle. So he just watched his future unfold before him, without him, entrusted solely in the hands of Peter Petrelli – who might not be the most responsible choice, sure, but who would at least stand his ground until his final breath before letting go of his charge.

The telepath scoffed, another ragged pant of breath. “Not years – _hours_.” The words stirred up a distant memory in Sylar from long ago, like disturbing a puff of dust from aged floorboards. “Y-you gotta listen to me, alright...?”

Maybe it was the agony of having his deepest, darkest worry torn out and used against him, or maybe it was the hallucinogenic nature of the discount dream city that couldn't seem to stop flowing at the edges, but somehow Sylar felt like he wasn't even involved in the stand off anymore. The fight had forgotten him and moved on, and even the blades in Parkman's gaze didn't hurt because Sylar was just numb. He was just a witness, or a biased referee, but one that was unable to set foot on the pitch, himself.

That was, until Parkman's head twitched between both Peter and Sylar and his eyes narrowed. That look still haunted the former villain's dreams, had done for years, now. He didn't even have time to fear it before it coiled around him tighter than any chain.

“Whatever you think you saw – it was all make believe...” Matt's voice pierced the mist surrounding the watchmaker, and a telltale scratching began at the seams of his mind. “None of it happened...” The words were luring him in. Winning him round. Making the idea behind them not seem quite so bad after all.

None of it had happened? Oh. Sylar wasn't sure how to feel about that. It meant he hadn't beaten his only companion black and blue countless times... that he hadn't finally pried open his shell, rusted closed from years of bloodshed and avoidance, and hadn't let in the chainsaw-like pain of feelings and regret... he hadn't been weak in public more than once, in front of someone, _with_ someone, with the last person he'd ever have imagined would make him feel better... they hadn't exchanged all those mean words... or the nice ones... they hadn't done anything at all... even the agony of redemption hadn't nearly bested Sylar, because none of it had ever happened in the first place...

There was that voice again. The voice of reason. “It. Was. A. _Dream_.”

A dream. A _dream_? But _was_ it a dream? A nightmare...? Yes. A nightmare _because_ it was one from which he couldn't be awoken, one that didn't belong to the living... _'The only thing that's real... is_ us _...'_

Like the crack of a whip, suddenly everything was crystal clear. Sylar was back in control of his mind and could breathe fully again, steam practically pouring from his nostrils. His body pounced before his mind could question it, his hand darting out before him as another unexpected roar ripped its way out his torn throat.

“It was REAL!”

*

Within an instant Matt was pinned to the wall, one not red and towering and safe, but instead draped in illustrated paper like scales. Reeling, he scrabbled at the vice-like grip at his throat, eyes bulging as he found a glowering Sylar inches away from his face.

Shit! Shit! Spluttering for breath, Matt choked and could do nothing as his vision began to blot like ink in water. Embarrassingly quickly, he lost the handle on his ability and the alleyway rained down around the trio like shattered glass.

The hand squeezing his windpipe seared like it was on fire. “We lived _every single_ day of it, Parkman! _Every_ hour! You have _no_ idea what you did, what you put us through!”

“Sylar!” Peter's voice was tight.

This was an imagined decade's worth of feelings finally seeing the light of day for the first time. This was the moment when those brows would lower, a forefinger would rise and everything would cut to black. Matt knew this. He fully anticipated it...

But instead, he made sense of the blurred shapes in his vision as Sylar glancing back at the other man. And then the hold on him lessened just enough to draw breath.

*

Blood rushing in his ears from the sudden disorientation, Peter tried to uproot his feet from the floor of the cell but found that he couldn't. He was back in cold, stinging reality, like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head, yet he still felt out of place, almost jet-lagged. His vision was spinning and playing tricks on him, he was certain – because _surely_ Sylar hadn't just about throttled Matt Parkman?

Like shaking himself out of a trance, Peter peeled away the cobwebby remnants of Matt's intrusion into his mind. Then his anger returned in full force when he made sense of what had just happened.

Matt had tried to control them?! He had tried to fucking brainwash them just to cover his own back?! The sensation was ringing throughout him like the beginning of a migraine, stemming from the tender point of entry that Matt had invaded. So that was what it felt like? It was so assaulting that Peter felt no remorse whatsoever when he looked clearly upon the cop in his current state: trapped and wriggling fruitlessly while trying to claw air back into his lungs.

*

Blazing hazel eyes darted to Sylar's, equally as bright, equally as infused. He raided them frantically for any sign of Matt's poison successfully turning Peter against him, but thankfully it appeared the fucker had been stopped before making any damage. The little man looked shaken after Parkman's _test_ , but at least he was in his right mind, thank god! ...And so was Sylar. Very much so.

The furious ex villain rounded on his purple, sweating captive again. “But... I want to thank you.” He added, panting under the exertion of the attack and Parkman's weight, aided as it was by as little telekinesis as possible.

Sylar recoiled slightly in order to avoid the spray of Matt's coughing fit. “Th-thank me? Wh... hell you... talking about?”

“If it wasn't for what you did...”

Again, Sylar let himself be drawn to the magnetic pull of trust from behind him. As he took in the sight of his steadying anchor, he couldn't believe he'd just stood at that wall again with Peter. _Their_ wall. The one Sylar had hated and Peter had conquered and Matt had tried to take away from them. As if just to wipe away any last doubts about who held his faith, the empath gifted Sylar with a small, encouraging smile.

“...I'd still be a monster.”

*

Matt chortled shamelessly, struggling a little with his windpipe constricted such as it was, by the towering figure who had overpowered and trapped him like nothing more than a chunk of meat that was ready to be flayed.

“And what... the hell... d'you think you are now...?”

There was a second, in which Matt could tell even from the back of Sylar's head that the man had faltered. When his face reappeared to drink in the current scenario, it was almost stoic aside from the prickle to the outside corners of his eyes and lips. That's right, son of a bitch...

Panicking around the grip on his throat (yet determined to hide that fact), Matt didn't care to wipe away the drool running from the corner of his mouth or the drops of sweat rolling down his face. “Y-you're never gonna _change_! You know as well as I do, Sylar, the twisted thoughts hiding in your mind can't be erased. Look at this: all it takes is one temptation, and – and you're right back to where you started!”

Flicking his watering gaze over Sylar's shoulder, Matt acknowledged the youngest Petrelli staring in indecision, as if he wanted to intervene but just couldn't figure out how.

“And _you_ -!” He spluttered. “You never came back from that dream, Peter! You _still_ can't find your place in the real world – and you seriously expect me to trust your judgement? Look at your _hero_ now!”

The cell fell silent then, aside from ragged breathing and fallen paper crinkling underfoot while Matt's announcements sank in. They melted uncomfortably over the two vigilantes, meanwhile Matt ingested in the feeling in order to keep his heartbeat from overworking itself.

But then it almost stopped in shock. Because the angled face above him flickered with a pure emotion that Matt had never seen there before... and then, with great effort, Sylar let him go.

The guy staggered back across the cell, leaving Matt to find his footing and massage his throat, stopping only when he returned to Peter's hand on his back and the wounded expression that caught his fall.

Through their eyes alone, the duo shared an entire conversation that Matt didn't even need to intrude upon with his ability in order to hear. He'd seen too many like this one between them to last him a lifetime.

Tugging at the biting collar of his shirt, Matt shook his head. Sighed. So what, now he had his freedom? He would lose his victory but at least he got his life, and he was lucky to get that? No. No freaking way.

*

Sylar hated to even think it. But Matt was right. What kind of person would string up his enemy like he just had? Nobody he wanted to be again. This wasn't the way. Or if it was supposed to be, then Sylar was determined to carve his own path in order to defy the one presented to him.

With the conscious choice to be better than Parkman and end this squabble, came the refreshing clarity of peace. That's not to say that Sylar wasn't aching inside like every seam of his body was eroding, but at least he suspected what would make it better. Even if just temporarily. Even if just a little...

This was what they should've done the second they entered this cell. They didn't have to have endured a re-run of Parkman's disdain. Now _that_ was never part of the plan.

Tingling heat vibrated down Sylar's forearm and along the length of his fingers. The heat struck to life like a match had been lit, casting white blue light over the cell once more. Blue sparks danced in Peter's eyes below him, reaffirming Sylar's determination with no words needed. The sensation of the ability felt oddly satisfying, more than he'd ever noticed before. Perhaps because it was the right thing to do? To free his captive and defy the screaming self doubt in his ears and prove he _had_ changed, no matter what anyone said? ...Or perhaps just because it was a blatant “fuck you” to Matt Parkman?

The telepath finally seemed to have caught his breath. “Hey – wh-what're you doing?”

“What we came here to do.” Sylar promised, his gaze never straying from the blue fireworks reflected in the one opposite. “We're going to keep fighting against Renautas. And you're not going to get in our way.”

Sylar raised an eyebrow, a motion that Peter greeted with a sombre tip of his head, a confirmation that they shared. Ignoring Parkman's gasped cries of “No! S-stop!”, he extended his fiery hand towards the closest pile of paper – the one that conveniently happened to be the plans for his and Peter's capture. Goodbye multi-million dollar plans, goodbye months of Noah's backbreaking work that had created this pit, because these immortal men had come here with a job to do, and like everything in life, they were _not_ giving up without finishing.

Unless, for some reason, Sylar's arm froze and refused to obey him. Like it did just now. What?!

“I can't let you walk outta here together! You're too dangerous...”

*

He really didn't want to look at Matt again, because every time he did the view got worse and worse. Now no longer just another lost ally, or even a lost ally who was willing to turn them over and fuck with their minds to protect himself, to Peter Matt appeared like a totally different man than he had even five minutes ago.

The cop limped a step closer, fixing his two targets with perhaps the first, true glint of empathy all day. But it did nothing to preserve what had once been good about him, so distorted was the man now by the lack of Peter's rose tinted glasses. Or should that be revealed in his true, twisted form: disgruntled and scruffy after the manhandling and the pressure of trying to condemn two lives over again. But much more than that was a definite sizzle to the air. Like hideous wings had unfurled themselves ready for flight, casting long, stretching shadows over the three men, shadows that were unable to be outrun even by a former speedster.

His voice caught in his throat. “Matt, don't –”

“I'm sorry, Peter. But you don't understand.” The cop sighed once again. Then suddenly that glint of empathy dissolved into pure, greedy determination. “...I'm saving the world.”

Peter could sense what was coming, like smelling gas in the second before an explosion when it's already too late to do something about it. Then all at once pain speared through his head like a javelin; white noise blocked out any other sound and he fell; unable to fight and only swirling down and down an endless tunnel, failing to scream louder than the pressing silence that gagged him. He felt a soft warmth at his side, another helpless person, falling with him because they'd both forgotten how to fly, and with a fractured heart he watched the retreating form of Matt Parkman swimming out of focus far above.

*

They didn't even put up much of a fight. It was so easy that Matt actually stunned himself with the magnitude of his own power. He should've done this in the first place instead of messing about with egos and pissing contests. But then again, where was the fun when there was no challenge?

He did feel an inkling of remorse (mixed with a hefty dose of pride, true) while looking down upon the “two most powerful men on Earth”, lying together on the floor in the same spot they'd fallen, slipping in and out of consciousness while writhing around in a pain they couldn't even begin to process. It was not a pretty encounter, Matt wished he couldn't speak from experience, but it was all he could do to stall for time.

There was a second, just one, where Matt revelled in the sensation of ultimate power. He could do _anything_ to them, for good this time, because who would know or even complain if Gabriel Gray disappeared once and for all...? It would be payback. No – _justice!_ For what the bastard had done to Matty and Janice, and Matt, himself of course. It wasn't like he didn't have good reason! And now he had the perfect opportunity. The control alone was heady, more so than any drug.

But then the second passed, and Matt fished his expensive new work phone out of his pocket. Oh yeah, he was definitely getting a promotion for this one. He could already see his new office... could taste the accompanying raise... the elevated status... but most importantly, real, true _respect_ for once in his life...

The line didn't ring nearly long enough for him to be able to work down the achievement in his voice. “Noah? You'd better get down here.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg, this confrontation just did NOT want to co-operate with me (and I blame Matt just because he's a major a**hole hehe), but we finally made it to this point, phew! I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get this update posted, and I hope it was enjoyable to read (especially after all the trouble it was to finish! XP)
> 
> The next chapter will be a lot less civilised and a lot more packed with action and angst and raw emotion – and I can't wait to get onto that part! I hope you can't either. That's all I'm going to say on it for now X)
> 
> Thank you for your patience, and as always I can't thank you enough for reading! ^.^
> 
> P.S. In case it wasn't obvious (SPOILERS FOR REBORN), this chapter marks the start of Matt's descent into the merciless Director we saw in Heroes Reborn – hey, he had to get there somehow, right? X)


	17. Your Every Secret

He can feel her. Smell her. Taste her. It doesn't matter that his shoulder is aching or that the creaky floorboards are digging into his back, because all he's aware of is this young woman attacking each one of his senses as viciously as she does everything.

Her naked skin is sweaty, electric against his, and as she moves her hair tickles his face and he can't get enough of her. Ice blue eyes illuminate the darkness, fingernails scratch at his chest and that smile shocks his heart more than her ability ever could. He's never known anything like this. He can't describe it, couldn't even imagine it before now because there is no parallel. He cries out when she swoops down upon him and bites his lower lip, hard. It hurts but she laughs and that makes it okay. It makes everything she's ever done to him okay.

Because he loves her. Because she saved him. Because she was the first person to ever see something good in him. But then all he can hear is a voice in his head telling him not to be so naïve.

_You really think she_ loved _you?_

Sylar did. At the time. Then her body slips from his arms and lies burning on the tide, and he knows better than to ever have fallen for her lies. Only, it doesn't stop his heart from breaking all over again, just as vivid as it did the first time. Darkness presses down upon him and he can't bear to turn around, he covers his eyes and begs for it to stop, but his own voice only laughs at him.

_Is_ this _how you treat the people you love...?_

“No!” Sylar insists although nobody can hear him. And then Elle Bishop's unseeing eyes are gone and there's no longer sand beneath his feet, but blood-soaked floorboards. He killed her. He killed her, too.

_What kind of monster_ are _you...?_

They struggle but Sylar easily overpowers his frail opponent. He can _feel_ the blades pierce her skin, pierce the heart that he's wished for but never managed to access until now. And then his mother is on the floor and Sylar is on his knees beside her, gasping, hurting. His hands are slipping in the blood as he draws, then later as he exhumes an open skull – he can't remember who's skull but that doesn't matter because there's another, and another, and another littered around him until all he can see are the countless bodies of his countless victims.

_You're inhuman. You're never going to change._ This _is who you are._

He screams as blood runs down to his elbows. He sobs as his fingers scrawl words in closet walls. He wants to die, he wants to end it all because he has sinned, he has murdered and he liked it but forgiveness won't listen even when he begs it for help. Nobody listens. Nobody cares about the damned. Even death doesn't want him when he tries to get in, so finally he stops bothering to contain it.

Sylar watches helplessly, unable to stop it or tear his gaze away. He watches himself give up and give in and kill again as he seeks any kind of bleeding relief from the hunger that will never let go of him...

*

“Let me go, Pete.”

Peter can't do that. But he can't hold on much longer, either. Time is running out like sands in an hourglass and he can't look ahead. His hands are slipping from Nathan's, his brother is leaving him inch by inch and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

The wind is cold and the night is dark, but not enough to cloak the street far below. He can't see it, though. He can't see much through the tears in his eyes except the face that's always been there and is now asking him to do the impossible.

He can't breathe. He can't think. This is his worst nightmare, the same terror that would wake him when he was young and Nathan wasn't home. But this time it's real and he can't deny it. He can't do anything. He can only prolong the inevitable and then carry on for the both of them to fight the good fight. Pain sears at his heart as disembodied words slice him like knives.

_You could have saved him..._

“No! No – I tried!” He yells into the nothingness.

_Here lies Peter Petrelli: he tried..._

“I did everything I could!”

_...Did you?_

He forgets to reply because Nathan is talking again. Saying goodbye. At last the man falls away from Peter's grasp as he yells and suddenly the world is spinning and the rooftop is nowhere to be found. Instead, there's nothing but open air. Nothing above and nothing below except a city miles away and his brother's half-burned face fading into the void...

And then Peter explodes. He endangers millions of lives because he couldn't prevent the white-hot blast that was destined to corrupt him all along. He failed.

_You weren't strong enough._

Fire licks at his skin, at his bones as vividly as it did the first time, it renders him nothing but pure, throbbing agony and he cries again. He cries also as flames claw into the sky from a crumbling, iron structure. People are screaming. People are dying across the water and it's all Peter's fault. He came here to save them but all he gained was more blood on his hands.

_Always out of your depth..._

He can't get a grip on reality. He feels tiny and worthless and nobody knows. It's a secret. He wakes up sweating and panting, unable to breathe, night after night at finding himself back in the real world. He doesn't belong here anymore and he can't tell anyone. It's too loud for him, too scary. He wishes he didn't miss that empty city but he does – he'd be better off locked up in his own head because at least that way everyone would be safe from him. He's only a liability, a bumbling idiot who can never clean up his own messes no matter how hard he tries.

_A walking disaster..._

Peter howls until his throat is raw but he can't make his way back to her. He abandoned her in that place, erased a human being from existence and never managed to fix it. Caitlin is dead because of him. Simone is dead because of him. How many people were snuffed out like a light simply because he couldn't save them? Because he is always the failure, always the embarrassment. He's so ashamed that he can't even gather enough strength to cry more, but he can never do anything right anyway. He's never been powerful enough, never brave enough or smart enough... he's never been good enough... never enough...

***

“Make it fast, I-I don't know how long I can hold them.”

A man's voice panted faintly down the line. Tracy was sure she recognised it, but she couldn't place the face. She could tell, however, even through the deliberately vague transfer of information, that this wasn't good news. Sitting beside her on the glossy table surface, Noah's face had suddenly drained of colour just as his eyes had suddenly drained of hospitality.

“...I'll be right there, Matt.” He said without emotion. When he hung up, he simply sat in place for a second, as if he'd forgotten where he was.

The previous, almost relaxed air in the conference room had evaporated, and in its absence Tracy _really_ realised the type of organization for which she had just signed on the dotted line. In here with a large table, a grand window and state of the art technology, it was easy to imagine a comfortable fit for her standards of work. But in truth, Renautas were about so much more than glossy meetings and complimentary cups of coffee.

Because Noah didn't move or speak, Tracy broke the silence before it could consume her. “What's happened?”

Adrenaline infiltrated the very air of the room like smoke, affecting Tracy's nerves. Somehow Bennet managed to channel a burst of pure excitement and thrill into cool-headedness when he finally found his voice. “...They're here.” Between one second and the next, he was on his feet and heading for the door with a hand buried beneath his jacket.

Suddenly the interview was over, along with any pleasantries and small-talk, and Tracy found herself swept along by the tide of emergency without ever being asked for her consent.

“Noah, wait!” She snapped, rapidly clip-clopping along behind her new boss. She barely made it out the door before it could slam shut on her like a dismissal, yet the way the man kept glancing back to ensure she was following told a different story. “'They' who? _Them_?”

The only reply was an enthused flash of eyes over the horn rims of Noah's glasses. ...No way?

The pair weaved their way past glass-walled tech labs and through bustling corridors to nobody's attention: the older man navigating the maze with ease, and the younger woman impressively keeping up despite the new shoes she was severely regretting not breaking in before wearing. The place continued to chug along like a well-oiled machine, everyone engrossed in their own work and oblivious to the dread that was now building in Tracy's gut.

It was too soon. _Far_ too soon. Sure, Noah had just briefed her on the outline of the mission, on the main details of the anonymous targets and what they were capable of, but Tracy was in no way ready to confront them _just now_! There had to be training first, right? Some implicated guidelines or safety measures at the very least?

Biting back the concern that could cost her everything she'd just won back, Tracy focused on keeping stride with Noah, sounding a lot more confident than she felt. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Consider this an extended interview...”

“You can't be serious?” Tracy faltered in her steps, almost scouring a gauge out of the floor tiles with a stiletto. Directly into the fire in the first half hour of employment...? “Noah – I'm not ready!”

The man spoke back over his shoulder, shoes squeaking with every hurried step and hand still hidden on his holster. “One of us, one of them. You can do this, Tracy. You're more than capable and here's your chance to prove it.” She might have laughed, or even span on her heel and walked out on all this for good had his voice not held a note of seriousness that told much more than his hardened expression did. It was... nice, to receive such a note of confidence. “They're contained for now, but I need you at my back should things take an... unexpected turn.”

The new partners finally cleared the tide of worker bees and approached sealed elevator doors at the end of the corridor. Noah seemed to fly inches above the ground in his haste, and it took only those few seconds for Tracy to talk herself into committing to this task with the professionalism of which she committed any.

“I don't understand – how did they even get in? Didn't you say the security in this place is impenetrable?”

“It is.”

While Noah swiped his ID card and pressed the touchpad on the wall, Tracy's feet thanked her for the time out but her heart only raced further. She could feel danger approaching like a gust of wind smacking her skin and leaving goosebumps behind. She wouldn't deny that they rang of excitement as well as fear.

But then the touchpad flashed red, bleeping angrily.

“Damn!”

Without missing a beat, Noah dived instead through a nearby door labelled “stairs”. Tracy tottered after him down an empty, concrete staircase, once again cursing her choice of footwear and the tight hemline of her dress.

As soon as they were in privacy, Mr Bennet drew his gun and checked it over with methodical practice. “Lesson number one: never underestimate these two.” The mechanic clicking and sliding of the weapon at work only served to increase Tracy's unease and confidence at once. Suddenly it was all _very_ real – just a second ago they'd been in talks of agreeable employee bonuses! She hoped Noah wouldn't have to use the gun. But if it came to that, it was at least comforting to know they were covered. “Clearly they've got help. Someone who knows the system.”

Tracy scoffed. “Or knows how to work it –” Her voice caught in her throat. She stopped walking, mid-step.

_No_...? It couldn't be...? Noah froze, stalling his ministrations on the gun, and the young woman knew her thoughts had been betrayed in both her face and line of delivery.

The company man watched her, absorbing everything as the company woman failed to stop her eyes darting to the nearest security camera embedded into the wall. There was only a second until the truth sank home in both agents. Then Noah promptly continued his descent with renewed fervour.

“Noah -”

Tracy grabbed his arm with a threatening grip, stopping the man again.

“He's an accomplice, Tracy. He's helping _them._ ” It was almost chilling how quickly the guy could snap between man-on-a-mission and comforting-father-figure. Currently, he looked as understanding as he had back in the meeting room before this call had come through, even though he must have been aware of the possibility of nasty frostbite obscuring his arm. “We'll go easy on him because he's a minor, but we have to take him in. Unharmed, I promise.”

Tracy knew Noah's sympathetic demeanour was all part of the plan. A career working with politicians had desensitised her to the act a long time ago. But despite that, and on top of the horrifying truths she'd learned concerning the future should they fail in their mission, Tracy wanted to trust him. She could easily recall the sweet kid at the centre of this discussion: all large eyes, messy curls and pure heart, trusting blindly in people because he saw good in them that simply wasn't there. He was precious, he was vulnerable but, most importantly... he could easily be played by falling into the wrong hands.

Noah was still staring at her. Tracy's fingers were still getting colder. The unnamed fugitives were still being held down on Level 6, although who knew for how much longer.

Very deliberately, she unlatched her grip from her boss's arm and followed him deeper into the building. But to Tracy's surprise, they didn't run down the full length of the staircase to the basement – instead, Noah flew through a doorway the next level down and led her through a corridor, then another door, then between two long aisles of computers to a chunky pair of boots crossed upon a desk at the very end of the row.

“I need you to track a signal for me.”

The boots barely twitched. They were hideous in Tracy's opinion, scuffed and damaged at the toes as if deliberately (the things themselves were far too new and expensive to have picked up such wear and tear unless it was done by choice).

There was a sigh, then a croaky, female voice. “Well _I_ need to get the hell outta this boring-ass town, but since when do we get what we _need_?”

“Taylor.” Noah's tone was warning this time.

“Whatever.” There was another sigh, as if she couldn't care less. But then the clunky boots uncrossed at the ankle and disappeared below the desk, revealing a disgruntled, gothic teenage girl in their place. “Am I supposed to be honoured that you came _all_ the way here to pay me a visit?”

Tracy had a feeling she failed to hide her surprise from showing through. This was the kind of tech guru Renautas was hiring? This kid could barely work liquid liner, how could she be entrusted with the inner workings of such an important company?

The girl bored deep-set eyes and a heavy brow into her visitors, reserving a look just for Tracy that would melt the skin from her face if she wasn't made of ice. Noah, meanwhile, seemed far beyond entertaining the girl's attitude. “I don't have time for your pleasantries, Taylor. It's a top priority order and we can't trust our own system. This is, ah... off the record.”

Somehow he was maintaining a tight smile, as if the two targets he had been chasing for months weren't almost within his grasp and every second wasn't precious. Even so, the agitation was too strong to be contained even behind Noah Bennet's famous bluff.

Taylor continued to eye both Noah and Tracy, all the while sprinkling flakes of black nail polish onto a growing pile on the desktop. Three more flakes were picked off and added to the collection as she wielded this power she had over her superiors, visibly enjoying every second of it. Finally, just as Tracy was about to step in and call out the girl on her bullshit, dark purple lips curved into a fake smile that could rival even Noah's.

“What kinda signal are we talking about?”

***

Betrayal. It's all he's ever known. “Mother” and “father” lure him in from the cold only to sever his heart once again, the good professor rescues him from his miserable life only to mutate him into a weapon, even the man with who gave him life didn't think he was worth loving before walking out on forever... He never had a chance but somehow he fell further than ever should've been possible.

Sylar can see them, hear every voice telling him he's worthless, that he's ugly, that he's a demon, a parasite, a beast. They stand around him in a mighty circle of derision, spitting on him as he writhes on the floor, bound and gagged in the centre of it all. He can't tune them out, he can't run away or deny the things they're saying even though he wishes he could more than anything. He's powerless, drawn like a moth to the brightest flame that hurts the most because it speaks the truth.

_They're right._

Agony spills forth from his very core, frothing on his lips as he tries to utter even one syllable that could spare him. There are none. None at all, because he _did_ all the things they're blaming him for. He committed every crime and thought he'd gotten away with them all. But there is no escape. There is only pain.

The rope is too rough, the noose is too tight but still can't do its job. It's useless. Just like Sylar as he now runs alone around every inch of his cage, tripping on his shackles, invisible and forgotten inside another man's head and nobody cares. His fingernails split as he tries to claw his way free and fails. His voice disappears because he used it all up screaming for help that never came. And it hurts and he hates it but he can't even blame them.

_Who would ever help_ you... _?_

That sound slithers into his ear again, the tone familiar and the words his own, but for the first time it's someone else who says them. Then... something changes. A mistake in the mechanisms of this torture. Something _cracks_ out of sight like a whip, and the darkness starts to lift its weight off Sylar. It's not supposed to happen but it does... somehow... a forbidden memory breaks free and ruins the illusion. And Matt Parkman speaks again.

_You know you don't deserve to be saved._

But the words fall flat, as if the microphone wasn't switched on in time. Another tether _cracks_ and the sky is slipping off to one side, shrinking like paper burning into ashes that flutter away into nothing. Sylar can't stop clinging to the light beyond the void that lifts him into the air like a lifeline. Because he suddenly remembers something. He's been here before.

He remembers that same voice putting him to sleep for a _long_ time, once. He remembers the man's face as he did so without remorse. Finally he recognises the shape of his enclosure now that the curtains have been raised and light floods into every corner. Once upon a time he forged himself a key to the prison door out of willpower alone, he's strong enough, he knows how to defeat this game and so he _won't_ let it hold him anymore! Not like it used to... never again...

All at once the world is too bright, too vivid, too close, too loud, too rough and too real but Sylar fights through the fog with everything he has until, finally, he breaks the surface gasping for air like a dying man.

*

“NO!”

A reverberating roar echoed around the cell, despite the paper-clad walls that should have stopped such a thing from happening. Unless they did, and the sound was only ringing through Matt's startled, empty head...? He was too stunned to even make sure. What. The. Fuck.

The telepath span on the spot, turning his back on the open door and any hope of reinforcements while dread and resignation encased him like a sealant. Unable to believe his eyes, he witnessed a ravaged, bedraggled Sylar tear himself free from Matt's mental command like he was merely ripping off handcuffs. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck – he knew that look. He knew that look _far_ too well.

He spluttered. “L-let's talk about this –”

It must have been terror, rage and regret all at once that rendered Matt Parkman totally void of sensation. But merely for a heartbeat. Because in the next moment there was nothing but pressure all around, swooping insides and the closest experience he'd probably ever get to flying.

*

Sylar roared again as he threw his torturer clean across the cell. He didn't care what he used: telekinesis, sheer force of will, as long as he got the motherfucker as far away from him as possible!

The grunt and squelchy _thwack_ of a body slamming into the far wall both thrilled and disgusted him at once, but there wasn't time to dwell on that. Not when the after-image of his nightmares were still prickling along his skin and raising the hairs there in their wake. Sylar coughed, moaned and squinted past the lingering ache that was still making his eyes water, hauling himself back to his feet with effort.

What the hell... Oh god... Oh shit... He was trembling all over, weak at the knees and practically smoking from his skin at such an invasion of privacy. The visions melted off him in stages. He felt nauseous, physically sick at what had just happened. It felt like he'd just been stripped naked and thrown into a spotlight for everyone to laugh at the parts of his body that he most hated. To remind him of his scars all over again.

_You're a murderer... a killer... a monster... you'll never be worth more..._

It had felt so real. Every last part of it... as the mind games slowly diluted, the paper-strewn cell was now bizarre to look at, so normal and dull compared to the clashing colours painting over every inch of Sylar's mind. He swayed on the spot, knocking stacks of files to the ground and accidentally trodding on them while the last remnants of Parkman drained from his violated mind. God, it stung, like the telepath had ripped out literal chunks of his flesh while his hooks had been removed so forcefully. But Sylar only swiped his messy hair back and pushed a palm to his forehead, grunting out the pain to the best of his ability.

_You've hurt everyone you've ever known... you've destroyed everything you've ever touched... there's no hope in hell for you..._

The whispers continued to flutter around him like a hummingbird's wings, but he could take them. He was more than familiar with the sensation of Parkman's control after living within it for months, which aided him greatly in righting himself and standing up tall. At least enough to be able to remember where he was and that danger was far from over.

Suddenly fear gripped the ex-killer again, so fully-formed that it could have been forced upon him by another third party

“Peter?”

Sylar's voice was croaky as he waded to his fallen friend's side – the only person who had ever looked past his personality deformities in order to take a chance on him anyway. The doubts in his ear were quieter now, fading as their power lost momentum, but that didn't mean they didn't still stab like knives.

_This is your fault... you don't even deserve him..._

Sylar only felt more ill at the sight: the empath lay shivering on dirty concrete, hair strewn over his pallid face, curled on his side and gasping in shallow sips of air. Parkman wasn't in his mind anymore, Sylar could tell, but what terrified him most was that while _Sylar_ was strong enough to withstand the worst of the telepath's spell because he'd encountered it before... Peter hadn't.

“...S'rry... M'so...sorry... I tried... I... try...” The younger man's voice was gruff, unsure, as if he thought he was still dreaming. Shit! He was still in too deep – there was no way he would shake it off fast enough to be able to walk out of this place by himself!

“Peter?!” Sylar dropped clumsily to his knees, the impact a pain that barely registered while his senses were so over-stimulated.

He fumbled for a hold on the other man's shoulder and rolled him onto his back, shaking him firmly but briefly to avoid upsetting the guy's balance more. Peter winced ever so slightly and whimpered in pain, his half-closed, dilated eyes swivelling blindly in search of something he likely couldn't find in this realm. But then the next uttered word shot hope through the former villain. “...S'lar?”

Thank god! So at least Parkman hadn't fucked him up beyond simple recognition. 'At least'?! Like he should be _grateful_ it was only _this_ bad...?! Sylar's pulse was still on fast forward from the first second the cop had attacked him, and he refused to look back to where the disgraced “hero” was groaning at the base of the wall, half-buried in fallen prophetic drawings. Shoving away Parkman's fading taunts in his head, and working from adrenaline alone, Sylar did the only thing he could think of while this window of time drew ever nearer to a close.

“C'mon.” He instructed, trying not to overbalance as he scooped Peter Petrelli into his arms and stood. “We have to leave. Now.”

“Wh... stop – don't... M'fine...”

“Shut _up_ , Peter!” He snapped, beyond tolerating the guy's constant sugar-coating when he had to deal with escaping the heart of the fire, the vicious enemies who were approaching to kill them, _and_ the realisation that he somehow had to get both himself and his only friend out of this impenetrable fortress alive...! The little man fell silent and stopped trying to resist when Sylar hoisted him up into a fireman's lift, trying to block out memories of doing this once as his brother.

Peter was hardly heavy, but the watchmaker trembled beneath him anyway. They had to run! They had to get out of this basement before it was too late...! But somehow Sylar just couldn't take that first step towards freedom.

He was still reliving his mental torture, so furious that he could have ripped Parkman's head clean off for what he'd just done – and he wasn't even sure if that was the anger talking or not! It wasn't that, though, that was holding him back. It was the simple fact that he didn't want to run away with his tail between his legs without at least doing something of substance to make this disaster worthwhile.

Making the conscious choice not to give in to his darker urges, instead he shot a blue spark at the corner of Bennet's nearest page. One of hundreds of equally flammable ones. It was only fair...

The paper lit instantly. Angry flames burst to life, crackling as they consumed their way through the furthest corner of the cell from where Matt lay recovering. There would be enough time for the cop to escape if he moved quickly... and that was the last gracious act that Sylar would ever grant him. Standing in the dark, surrounded by the flickering shadow of yet another nemesis, orange light tickled over the set of his features as he silently bid Parkman farewell.

Then he hurried to the open door of the cell, being careful of Peter as he slipped out into the dark, vacant corridor. His limbs were weak, his mind was spinning and his heart lay in violated tatters, but Sylar had to be strong for the both of them. He only paused for a brief thought, one of perhaps an aptly-timed, vicious one-liner or (even worse) kicking the door closed and having done with the telepath for good...

But more captors were coming. They could be here any second. Peter Petrelli was hurting on his back, and a lifetime of regrets were still trailing from Sylar like blood-soaked ribbons. He had enough on his conscience already.

So without a backwards glance, he ran through Level 6 as fast as he could, uncaring of where he was going as long as it wasn't here, leaving nothing but tendrils of smoke to leak out of the open cell door behind him.

***

Micah's fingers worked overtime, hammering his keyboard and gripping the screen of his laptop alternatively in an unparalleled rhythm. The rest of the loft – no, the rest of the _city –_ didn't exist within the cyberspace he was currently inhabiting. There was only this duel that infested every millisecond: “us” against “them”, the technopath against the creators of the system that he was currently wielding against them.

After that call between Matt Parkman and Noah Bennet had transpired, things had gone dark on his end. A blatant lack of alarms or emergency calls or electric spasms through the security system had been a clever move on the part of Bennet and his crew. But when they re-emerged in full formation, Micah had been ready for them.

The kid let out a triumphant huff when he slammed another door in the frustrated faces of Bennet's backup team, having lead them down yet another false trail in the wrong direction. Then he scoured through his intel to locate the other, smaller group, the leaders of the pack, before they could make too much progress through the building. The system map was immense and highly detailed, yet the kid leapt across blockades and scaled webs of encryption like a freerunner let loose, his muscles burning but the thrill of the chase continuing to pump energy through his veins.

He searched avidly to recover Mr Horn-Rimmed Glasses and his new partner, the one Micah couldn't make himself look at for long. It was too painful. Too distracting. Micah knew himself well enough to know that if he let himself linger, he would never be able to look away from his mother's doppelgänger. Not when she walked just the same and moved just the same, and her determined expression looked exactly like his mother's did when she'd hunt Micah down to tell him off for leaving his jacket on the floor for the gazillionth time... No. He definitely couldn't let himself get distracted.

He found them on Level 4. Far too close for comfort while Peter and Sylar were still down on Level 6.

Fighting down the panic, Micah did all he could with the radio silence from his allies, and worked only on holding off the Renautas agents as long as possible. Like a warlock casting spells from his fingertips, Micah summoned iron gates to block the pathway of the bad guys, he drew padlocks in the air that sealed every door he didn't want opened, he changed pass codes, shuffled around authority and even lured his targets down shining corridors and into empty traps – anything to simply distract Noah Bennet and Tracy Strauss...

He was so engrossed in this battle that he didn't notice the activity in his own cameras. The hidden ones surrounding the loft. He was only roused from the depths of his plight by a sound from nearby, just in time to see armoured agents piling along the corridor outside the front door.

Electrified with sudden terror, Micah wrenched himself free from Renauatas' security system and scrambled off the old bed, his feet getting tangled in the duvet and his heart getting shaken around in his torso. Crap! There wasn't enough time! He shouldn't have been so blind – so foolish! But how did they even find him in the first place? He'd monitored every outgoing signal from that building...!

He couldn't afford to worry about that right now. He had only seconds to make a run for it.

Once he finally found his footing, he grabbed his still whirring laptop and snatched up his backpack, sprinting across the cold floor in just socks as a _crash!_ from behind him announced the agents had infiltrated Isaac Mendez' old studio. Micah cut the lights and raced to the back exit with his pulse hammering in his head, doubting he would be so lucky as to have a repeat of Sylar saving him like last time –

Sometimes he hated being right. The door opened before he could get to it. And suddenly dozens of Renautas agents were crowding around the young boy from all sides, directing night-vision goggles and enhanced weapons at him while shouting commands that couldn't process inside his terrified skull. The only thing he could think was at least the only thing he needed: even if Renautas got _him_ , he knew the fight was far from over.

***

Peter had no idea where they were going. He thought he knew where he'd been, though. In that cell that Noah had packed to the brim with plans to get rid of him and Sylar. But then he'd just stood atop Mercy Heights hospital too... and been somewhere in the sky... he'd also been in a desolate future littered with bodies piled high like skyscrapers...

It felt like he'd travelled very far in an extremely short time. It was disorientating to recall whispered voices and taunts that were so fresh they were still drying on his skin, and yet to rationally know he was still on his latest mission to infiltrate Renautas with Sylar and hadn't left the building at all.

At least... he thought he was. Everything was fading in and out of focus. Everything was moving around him too fast. Everything was disjointed. He hurt all over but primarily in his head, like he was suffering from a migraine, a kick from a horse and the worst hangover he'd ever known all at once. There were repeated, loud blasting noises like cannon fire overhead, and what felt like rain kept falling down on his back. Nothing made sense except firm hands keeping him aloft, the sway of a man's body beneath him and the familiar, comforting scent pressed against his face. But why was Sylar carrying him?

_Look at you now... still useless..._

All at once the voice of his doubts came back to him, hitting with the impact of a tidal wave. Suddenly he remembered it all in vivid detail: Matt's betrayal, the mind torture, and the secret truths that had arisen from the depths of Peter's mind.

He fought to draw breath with difficulty, perhaps due to Sylar's sharp shoulders digging into his chest... or maybe it was just the sudden onslaught of tears that threatened to stream from his eyes. He struggled in his friend's hold, squirming as much as he could in this helpless position while he felt drugged and heavy and his every extremity ached.

_You can't even escape on your own two feet._

Through blurry eyes, he could discern what he assumed was a sleek, unidentifiable corridor in Renautas. Then there was another _blast!_ and more rain sprinkled down past his face – except it was brown and solid and looked more like rubble... They weren't in the basement anymore? Which meant Sylar must have carried him a distance already.

“St... stop it, Syl... I can w-walk...” He tried to sound assertive, but the other man's harsh tone between ragged breathing quashed that idea.

“You can barley even string a sentence together, Peter! Now shut up and let me concentrate!” The hands holding him in place tightened and Peter winced at such a dismissal. As much as he hated allowing himself to be such a burden, Sylar was probably right. He would only slow them down further... make things so much worse...

_Always needing someone else to clean up your messes... You're pathetic. You only ever get in the way..._

Reluctantly, as throbbing pain crept over and consumed his body once more, Peter stopped trying to wake up. Instead he gave in and retreated into the numbness of his sneering thoughts. Somehow it was still Matt's voice that gave life to his secrets. They burned and stabbed at his pulsing temple, the words expanding until the pressure of trying to look past them simply became intolerable.

Peter scrunched welling eyes closed against the painful brightness of the corridor and the sight of being literally carried to freedom by the real hero of the day. Again. For the countless time. Just like the liability he knew he was and hated that he'd always been.

*

None of the doors were opening for him. No help at all came from any of the many touch pads, screens or cameras that Sylar passed, which could only mean one thing: Micah wasn't with them anymore.

He didn't want to dwell on _why_ that could be, and he couldn't have even if he _had_ wanted to. He didn't dwell on much of anything, in fact: no emotion, no regret and no questions, because everything would drown him if he let even one leak spring through. He couldn't afford the distraction of something as silly as _thinking!_ For Sylar was so swept up in trying to find a way out of this godforsaken maze, without running head first into the hunters who he knew were on his trail.

All logical thinking and planning had gone out the window after exiting the basement to no technical greeting, and now Sylar was running on intuition alone. There was no need to maintain stealth anymore, thank god. It was too late to worry about blowing their cover – and so he just sped along narrow, windowless corridors in the bowels of the building with only basic survival in mind.

He blasted down walls with booming _bangs!_ of telekinesis and ignored the accompanying waterfalls of dust, crafting a make-shift escape route that he raced through as fast as he could while being careful of the man on his back... a particularly valuable man who currently held only shape-shifting and couldn't withstand much more damage than he'd already endured thanks to Sylar...

No! No thinking! Just doing!

Lost in the labyrinth, Sylar carried his friend blindly through room after room, each broken wall encasing the pair in temporary blackness only to reveal another corner at the other side. He scrambled through the place like he just had in the shadows with Parkman's voice in his ear, forcing down the bile that was brewing just at the memories. Not yet, there wasn't time to look back and be dragged down by the shame. Not yet, not until they got out...

The wounded duo slipped across a slideshow of renovated halls, blackened ash piles that used to be laboratories, and construction sites drowned in plastic sheets and scaffolding. The further Sylar ran, the more the Company headquarters fell into the smouldering disrepair that had been his own doing, once. Somewhere along the way a distant alarm began to screech, and every sprinkler that was still working rained down upon the two fleeing fugitives, raining cold pinpricks of sensation that crept down their faces and beneath the collars of their shirts.

Goddamn it! The building all looked the same at every turn, the place was huge and the structures were getting too unstable over here to break down many more walls without every floor collapsing upon them!

So, panting, Sylar staggered to a stop after ducking under what must've been his tenth piece of scaffolding. He was in another gaping space, cast in near darkness, because the lights had yet to be repaired in this old corridor that had been abandoned halfway through restoration. Had he been through this way before? He was so worn out that he couldn't even tell.

Peter was biting back a stream of hurt noises and Sylar's back and arms were straining after carrying even this little man. He hovered momentarily to catch his breath, emotion threatening to flood and suffocate him like the sea to the shark that stops swimming. Particles of rubble swirled through the air from the newest broken wall, workmen's tools were scattered nearby and the sprinklers distorted dust that was caked the full length of the floor. The air tasted like stale water and mortar and Sylar had to force himself not to gag on it. The only thing that helped soothe him was a slight breeze floating across from afar.

...Wait... a _breeze?_

Deep, dark eyes traced the corridor far to the right, to where silver moonlight shone through a fluttering, plastic sheet taped over a hole in the wall. There was fresh air at the other side. The most delicious scent that could only mean one thing... freedom.

Sylar puffed out a rejuvenated cloud of dust, suddenly shaky at the knees. “Hold on, Peter.”

Peter only gasped faintly when Sylar shook his wet hair out his eyes, hoisted his friend's warm weight further onto his shoulders and reaffirmed his grip on the smaller man. Then he set off again, driven by the literal light at the end of the tunnel...

Being so intent on his destination, he wasn't aware of the tinkling tune that picked up all around until it encased him like a chorus of tiny bells. He never realised that something was wrong until Peter screamed, then pain splintered through Sylar's scalp like a hundred needles at once, and suddenly countless shards of ice were shooting from the sprinklers and shattering upon impact with the ground.

Fuck, it hurt! The tinkling bells persisted, Peter continued to yowl and squirm and there was dagger-like rain spanning the entire length of the corridor between Peter, Sylar and the way out. What the hell?! It made no sense, but Sylar was aware that there was too far a distance to endure the pain.

Forced to stop, he dropped to his knees again and lifted the empath from his shoulders, instead shielding as much of Peter as he could with his own, regenerating body. He curled over his gasping friend, a yell grating in his throat as ice sliced through his jacket and back and red flakes of crystal melted upon concrete.

Was this still part of Parkman's torture? Had they ever even left the cell?! They'd been _so close_ only for this torment to still be unfinished! How long could it possibly go on...?

Sylar couldn't gather the sufficient brain function to think. He could only continue to shout openly, so distressed as he was by the constant pain that was hitting him faster than he could heal. It was as if poisoned fangs were eating him alive, not enough to kill him but enough to render him helpless. A growing pool of blood was dirtying the water beneath the huddled duo, Peter was struggling to stay conscious and Sylar scrabbled to get a grip on anything that could help them. Somehow, miraculously, his flailing fingertips stroked the faintest ends of telekinesis, and he managed to hasten enough of a barrier to protect himself from the jagged rain as if casting up an umbrella.

Never had empty air seemed so blissful before. Even when he knew what was coming next. Now heaving in laboured breaths, Sylar grit his teeth and waited for the knitting of his flesh to begin while clip-clopping footsteps approached his back.

*

Tracy ran to a stop in the middle of the corridor, gaping at the scene before her. The glowing ice encasing her hand was the only light source within darkness, reflected back in hundreds of falling ice drops as they cascaded over the targets. That was, _Noah's_ targets – Tracy's meal tickets. She had chased them this far to now find herself only a few steps away... and every ounce of triumph that had driven her even three seconds before was gone.

She was close enough now to see the hunted men with her own two eyes. And they weren't just nameless, faceless bad guys, no. They were _real_ people _._ Not just any people, either: people like _her_. Suddenly Tracy Strauss (most ambitious, top of her class, least likely to quit) hesitated even though she'd all but achieved her latest mission.

So _this_ was “them”. She remembered how dangerous they were, and how much trouble Noah said they had caused and would cause again in future... but it was the simplest thing that gave her pause.

It was difficult to see clearly in the dim light, but Tracy could make out enough to tell that one of the men was badly hurt, had been before she'd just made it worse with her sprinkler trick, and the other was protecting him avidly. Even if it meant he had to take the full brunt of the damage. And that changed things: they were the marks, the bad guys who would kill billions if they didn't get taken in and Tracy _knew_ this! But they were also human beings who were currently bleeding at her hand.

As she watched, horrified by the effect of the ability she'd promised never to use to harm others again, the taller of the targets gathered countless splinters of ice with an invisible force above his head. He shook with the pressure and leaked more red into the pooling water at his feet, his jacket in tatters and the skin beneath open and angry. ...But, slowly, the wounds marring his back began to seal shut. And he looked over his shoulder, back in Tracy's direction – no, _past_ her – with a glare that made Taylor Kravid's the most appealing thing in the world...

All at once Tracy began to regret faltering. What kind of evos could be worth so much trouble on behalf of Renautas? Perhaps ones that could control things with their minds, heal from any injury, and were _not_ the type of men Tracy wanted to be around any longer...

What the hell had Noah roped her into here?! This man was clearly as dangerous as has been forewarned (at least too powerful for her antics to be of any real use!) and upon closer inspection, the other one was beginning to look suspiciously like Nathan Petrelli's younger brother, Peter... Although _that_ detail had been accidentally omitted from the case overview. There were too many factors at play here and Tracy barely knew the half of them, it seemed, and _that_ uncertainty coupled with _this_ present incident had the woman only too aware of how out of her depth she really was.

As if just to stop her from giving up on the job altogether, ragged breathing and squeaking footsteps finally caught up beside her.

*

“It's... over, boys.” Noah panted, taking up stance next to his much younger, fitter partner.

Catching his breath, he wiped his foggy glasses with the back of the hand that wasn't pointing his handgun at his targets. There they were at last, the two sons of bitches who had kept him from peaceful sleep for almost half a year.

“It was a good shot. But we've apprehended Micah Sanders. ...You're on your own now.”

Too slowly, he absorbed the full scene before him in all its painful glory: Peter's near-unconscious state, Sylar's rage, the bloody puddles on the ground, rusted scaffolding and discarded tools nearby, the hefty collection of razor-sharp splinters that were hovering above Sylar and ready to fly with even one angry thought from the serial killer... This was not how Noah had pictured the moment he'd finally catch them.

Even though the epic hunt had _eventually_ come to its conclusion in this damp, dank space; and even though these two evos were responsible for nearly flushing Noah's career and sanity down the toilet in recent months, he wasn't overcome with the satisfaction he thought he'd be. He didn't want to gloat or brag, didn't feel the sense of utter completion that normally came hand in hand with concluding a particularly difficult mission. It wasn't that he wanted to hug them or skip into the sunset or anything either – god no! But... now that everything had been stripped back to the bare bones of the chase and there were no more theatrics, no more crazy escapes and just two scared, wounded and trapped young men in a miserable corridor... they didn't seem at all as menacing or almighty as they had grown to become from afar.

Not that Sylar wasn't giving it everything he had, of course. Lips thinned, eyes on fire, wet strands of dark hair curving over his face... the power in that scowl alone could frighten even the toughest of men, but not Noah. Not when he had been waiting for this for so long.

*

Currently, Sylar couldn't decide which seemed like the better option: this indeed being part of Parkman's torture, meaning it wasn't real and he was lost in his nightmares forever; or it, in fact, being reality, meaning he'd got _this_ close to escaping only for everything to be ruined at the last second.

_You don't deserve any better..._

Sylar concluded that he was still too fucked up after Parkman's violation to be able to normally process what was happening. It didn't compute. It was just so ridiculous. He'd gotten within _sight_ of freedom but was going to be reigned in by no other than HRG himself and one of Nathan Petrelli's former conquests? Macy? No, Stacy? ...Tracy. Of course. The ambitious ice queen who'd cosy up to the biggest name in the house just to be associated with authority. What the hell was she even doing here anyway?

It was as if he could only scrape the very surface of the tip of the iceberg, and even though he could _feel_ that there was so much more bullshit hidden outside his reach, he couldn't remember how to get to it. His functions were already clouded by too many bruises and too much pain. He was too tired, too desperate and too ashamed to think things through enough to be able to plan a counter strategy.

Like a cornered animal trying a last attempt to scare off its superior hunter, his instincts kicked in and he pushed every last speck of raw feeling into his features, purely for the sake of Mr Bennet.

*

Just as well Noah had been on the receiving end of enough death stares in his life to have built up a hefty resistance. It was tempting to lose courage but he resisted, even though the risk of being impaled by flying ice was growing with each passing second.

“It shouldn't have come this far. I'm sorry that it has.” Giving Tracy's surprised look no response, he let her believe that this was yet another interrogation tactic. Really, though, he shocked himself by how genuine those words were.

An animalistic growl rumbled past Peter's aimless mumbling and the crackling song of ice hitting concrete. “You of all people should know that “sorry” doesn't make everything okay, Bennet.” A bitter huff of effort clouded from Sylar's lips, due to the falling temperature all around and the building pressure on his shield. He wouldn't be able to hold it forever.

It almost pained Noah to agree with this man, after everything they'd been through over the years. Almost. “You're right.” He confessed. Because Sylar _was_ right, and spoke with the weight of experience on his vocal chords that Noah, himself, knew too well. “And you have no reason to trust me, but you need to listen... Sylar.”

The man's chosen name rolled awkwardly over his tongue before Noah released it. There was no need to cause more problems than were already permeating the dusty, icy air. This was _months_ in the making, months and months of humiliation and sleepless nights and more plans than the alphabet had letters, for fuck's sake! But then why was Noah suddenly hesitating before saying the words he'd been wanting to all along?

“You and Peter? You're far too dangerous together, you could cause a _lot_ of damage to innocent lives. Renautas only wants to make sure that doesn't happen.”

Sylar didn't reply beyond more fuel flaring the flames in his eyes. The man was still curled over Peter, defending him from the sprinklers and the agents like a ferocious lion and his cub. It was always more difficult to bag'n'tag a target once emotions came into play. However, Noah had overcome this on every normal mission of his career when the ends outweighed the means. And this was _far_ from a normal case.

Half a year later, and Noah was no closer to understanding this sudden conception of friendship than he had been the night Claire had jumped from that Ferris Wheel. He still couldn't comprehend it. But Noah Bennet had been many things over his time, and an idiot had never been one of them. He'd have to be foolish to deny these men their improbable bond any longer, when the truth was staring him so blatantly in the face for the hundredth time. And foolish not to... embrace it.

“All this?” The seasoned agent twitched his gun at the looming shell of Renautas around them, ensuring to lay down the words as smoothly and delicately as silk. “It should never have gotten so ugly, I understand.” He continued, his features expressing a combination of both anger and concern that might easily have been true if he took the time to inspect it. “But I can promise it will only get worse if you don't turn yourselves in _now._ If you run, Renautas will chase you. If you fight, they will destroy you. This is your only chance.”

There was more he could say (more he _should_ say), Angela's vision was the worst of the truth, the most important part, but it would most definitely send this cretin spiralling over the edge before a wall of blades spiralled into Noah's chest. That was _not_ an option he wanted to explore. So he spoke quietly. Almost sympathetically, with the skill of a master persuader to avoid releasing the wrath of the beast.

“You might be willing to gamble with your own life, Sylar... but are you willing to gamble with _his_?” Noah let his gaze linger upon the weakened man in Sylar's arms. Peter had always had a knack for getting himself hurt whenever Noah saw him, but that didn't make his ghostly-white complexion or the ice splinters embedded along his bleeding legs any less affecting.

The angles of Sylar's face rippled in a dance of rage and deep thought. His concentration appeared to derail somewhere between his weakened ally and maintaining what was now a deadly block of ice shards above the pair. His fists clenched tighter in the fabric of Peter's shirt while the weight of the world seemed to traipse through that sick head. A tremor shook Noah's gun as ice pitter-pattered around the duo, tension spiralling deeper inside him while he allowed the silence to hammer his point home.

Finally the killer's lips twitched. Noah dared to dream. “...So we turn ourselves in. And then what?” He snarled softly, barely louder than a murmur. “You kill us? Chain us up? Hand us over to Parkman to have his way with?”

Those eyes flashed midnight black like a shark the instant before a kill, a look that squeezed all the air out of Noah's lungs. Beside him, unacknowledged and unremembered until now, Tracy shifted in discomfort. Meanwhile Mr Bennet grabbed desperately after his fading remnants of control, finger itching on the trigger.

“We'll... look after you.”

“You mean supervised “accommodation” down on Level 6 until the end of time? Visiting hours on weekends? Bingo nights...? I don't think so.”

It could have been Tracy's ability that spread ice down every vertebra of Noah's spine, and perhaps he would have blamed her for it – if he wasn't so familiar with the dreaded sight before him now. It was the famous glare that personified the murderer, himself: two dark vortexes of pain and rage beneath the heavy frame of his brow.

A half-grunt of effort slipped from Sylar's mouth before morphing into a forced, bitter chuckle. “If we fight you'll destroy us, was it...?” The man panted for breath, the tips of his teeth poking into sight like glinting fangs. And then he let slip the promise that made everything break. “I'd like to see you _try_.”

Suddenly he jolted, deadly ice splintered through the air, Noah ducked and hid his head while Tracy gasped and the sound of a hundred breaking glasses shrieked off every surface around them. With his face buried in his arms such as it was, Noah was helpless to stop what was coming. His last thought was one of resentment – that he couldn't even look the attack in the eye, the way he wanted to. This wasn't the way he wanted to go out but he didn't have the option: he couldn't see, couldn't help himself, couldn't avoid the pain and couldn't... couldn't feel it, either? What?

There was no pain. No ripping of his flesh or piercing of vital organs. Nothing. He strained his hearing past his own breathing and heartbeat, listening for anything besides the fading echo and the ever-present, gentle bells' song of the sprinklers at work in the background. When he chanced a peek over the sleeve of his jacket, the corridor was empty, the plastic sheet at the far end was fluttering and a dark shape drew across a sliver of sky beyond.

No... _No!_ The future – the dream – his family – the _world_...?!

*

Tracy stood, trembling in the space and slowly regaining solid form. She startled for the second time in ten seconds when Noah Bennet let out an ungodly curse at her side, and kicked a toolbox on the floor, rattling the thing in another reverberating tune around the corridor.

Holy hell. Unlike Noah, Tracy had had no need to hide her face once her ability had turned her to water to save her from harm, and so she had witnessed the attack in full. She blinked rapidly, reliving the sight of a fatal mountain of shards speeding directly towards her, only to fall short far from impact. It hadn't been an assault. It was only a distraction, a scare tactic – and a successful one at that! ...But why hadn't that man tried to kill them?

The woman was practically stunned into uselessness (although that was hardly an improvement over the last few minutes, she thought angrily), because as far as she was concerned she'd just completed the most ludicrous interview of her detailed career with _no_ training, _no_ warning and _no_ guarantee of safety.

“What the hell just happened?!” She demanded, storming up to her boss with no respect for workplace hierarchy.

_Sylar_... of course she had heard the stories. The crazy madman who traversed the country cutting open the heads of specials to steal their brains, who only got more and more powerful until he could defy death itself... and Noah had just sent her into the danger zone with no heads up and no hope of protecting herself?! This whole thing was beginning to feel less and less like a dignified position within the world's most advanced corporation, and more like an improvised pile of steaming bullshit!

“You better start talking, Noah, or I swear to god I'm outta here!”

Tracy watched the always so stoic man pace madly across the corridor, running both hands through his receding hairline and looking the closest to manic that she had ever seen him. “I promise, I'll explain everything, but not just n-” His face suddenly went slack, staring over the top of her head.

“Noah?”

Pure rage lit the middle aged man up like a puppeteer had just lifted his strings, and he was gone from her space and suddenly marching to meet the arrival of a third Renautas agent. The newcomer was panting, sooty and sporting a nasty cut above his eyebrow, hobbling just a few steps ahead of Noah's (perfectly timed) backup team.

*

“What the hell just happened?!” Fuming, Noah descended upon Matt Parkman like the big, bad company man he had been in the early days of their acquaintance. The cop was unpleasantly reminded of how fragile their truce as co-workers was, and how superior Bennet _still_ considered himself to be in their dynamic. Fuck it, now Matt had to once _again_ endure the burn of epic failure concerning this man!

Noah angrily sent the troops out the far end of the corridor while Matt stuttered, fumbling to get the words to form in his mouth. “They – they burst in!” He insisted, choked by nasty memories, a throbbing temple and, luckily, a non-fatal amount of smoke. “I – I was painting in the vault, like you wanted, and... and they burst in outta nowhere and attacked me!”

Sweating profusely, Matt jabbed a finger at the tender wound on his forehead. Sure, he could consider himself lucky to have evaded more serious damage after greeting a concrete wall with his face, but the small injury stung a hell of a lot more than it should due to the manner with which it had been achieved. Just reliving it made him feel sick at Sylar's nerve.

A female voice dragged him out of sulking thoughts. “You said you had them contained.”

For the first time, Matt noticed an attractive, tall woman behind Noah. Tracy Strauss. Oh great! Another witness to his fuck up! Her appearance bugged him (and not because she was the doppelgänger of the madwoman who had once thrown him out a window), because if she was here as Noah's apparent backup that meant the company man had been “looking out for” more of his “old friends” than Matt had stupidly realised.

“Yeah, I did, but they weren't exactly playing fair – what's she doing here anyway?” He glared at his own reflection in horn-rimmed glasses. “I thought _I_ was -”

“Don't change the subject, Matt!” Noah growled, rage filtering through his forced calm. “I need to know _exactly_ what happened and _exactly_ what they said!”

Fucking hell, Matt _hated_ that look. He hated being seen as the newbie, the loser, plain ol' Parkman who couldn't even direct traffic well enough to be promoted... He hated it all the more because it came from Noah Bennet. The smug bastard always seemed to taunt Matt with that dull fleck in his eye, the one that would trickle down over his entire face until it even coloured the words he spoke so that they tasted like derision. He was so goddamn _sick_ of it! And now, thanks to Peter Petrelli and Sylar ( _again!_ ) he was robbed the great victory of a success that even Bennet couldn't capture.

Matt couldn't face dropping even lower amongst the ranks due to his own arrogance. So he did what he always did best in such situations. He lied some more.

“Like I said, they... they attacked me.” His chest was tight from all the action, making his breath catch more than usual. “I thought I had 'em b-but they were too powerful. I blacked out and when I woke up they were gone. I dunno what they wanted we... we didn't exactly exchange pleasantries.”

“Are you a _mind-reader_ or not, Parkman?”

Matt squirmed, a fresh flush burning his skin even hotter. It was _so_ tempting to... _coerce_ his co-worker into believing him, but somehow the bastard always knew. So, biting his tongue and ability, the telepath simply sighed and slumped his shoulders. “I'm sorry Noah. They... they burned it all, everything you had, it... it's all gone.”

*

As if it wasn't enough to have the fugitives escape from within his very clutches. They just had to go and destroy months of backbreaking work before fleeing to bring the entire human race to its knees.

Noah nearly bit through his lip to keep back the filthy curses that threatened to spill forth. Ice crunched under his shoes as he paced on the spot some more, removing his glasses to rub at his eyes while his mind reeled like a carnival display. There was too much to process and too many people waiting on his response. ...Where was his beloved coffee maker when Noah needed it most?!

High heels clip-clopped close by, then Tracy entered Noah's narrow field of vision with her arms firmly crossed and her eyes upon him. At least if _one_ good thing had to have come from Parkman's added kick to the shin, it was that the woman seemed to have let go some of her rage in order of business, in the most Tracy-like manner that blessed Noah with faith. At least one of them had their head screwed on straight.

“So all your work is gone, and we have no way to find the targets. What does this mean?” Tracy ran through it matter-of-factly. If not for the slight tremor to her voice she would have been flawless. Thank god one of Noah's initiates seemed to be up to the task he had chosen them for.

Performing a deep breath (in for four seconds, out for eight), the agent replaced his glasses along with his professional persona, righting it at the edges like pressing a good shirt. Grinding his teeth, he looked down upon Matt with such promise infesting his gaze.

“It means Parkman, here, better get used to spending a lot of long nights in front of an easel.”

***

Lights whooshed by outside, distorted by glass into shooting stars that blurred at the edges. They swooped past softly, steady against the night in a never ending procession that Peter couldn't seem to look past. The highway was reasonably empty at this time of night, and so only the occasional passing headlight speared him in the eye. If he'd been counting them he'd have lost track long ago.

The window was cool against his face, so close yet not quite touching as empty scenery rolled by in a peace that was undisturbed, save for the rumbling of the engine and other passing vehicles. Sylar sat behind the wheel at the left, a strained, silent shape that hadn't said one word the whole journey. Not that Peter could even remember most of it.

He could faintly recall being carried through the sky over multiple lit-up cities, and then suddenly they were in a car and fleeing yet another ringing alarm that stabbed through his skull like stakes. Sylar hadn't elaborated and so Peter hadn't asked, too spent as he was by the ordeal back in Texas. That must've been hours ago.

The unfamiliar smell of the car still permeated the interior, and the trundling of the vehicle did Peter's pounding head no favours. His nausea had finally faded but although he had taken regeneration at some point through the haze, pins and needles continued to tingle in his cranium and legs as if shards of ice remained embedded below the skin. The ability might have healed his physical wounds, but sadly made no improvement to the pain swirling throughout every crevice of his thoughts.

The memories... the faces... the encompassing worthlessness that had ingrained itself into his very bones... they weren't going away. Everything was only growing bigger, brighter until Peter was hardly aware of anything except his own regrets. Over the journey, he'd tested the mental wounds gingerly at first, terrified to discover how big they were, and had slowly built the confidence to stroke over the raw edges and gage how deep they truly ran. Very deep, was the answer. Now he couldn't stop worrying them like a loose tooth, even though it only hurt more. He'd been thinking for miles, now. Miles and miles and miles.

Peter had failed to initiate conversation with Sylar so far, although the lack of communication was crippling. Every time he tried to form a sentence it was tugged from his grasp by his many doubts tumbling over anew. So many mistakes... so many failures... He knew what he wanted and how he was going to ask for it, but it was too huge, too scary to actually open his mouth and get the words out. As for Sylar? If Peter had been forced to witness his worst memories over again – he could only imagine which horrors the recovering murderer had relived.

Night was threatening to lift its tendrils from the horizon ahead, the way home. Peter had no clue what time it was or even how long they'd been travelling, there was no anchor to reality or even the radio to give him grounds for comparison. It was when he thought he saw the tiny imprint of a city against the sky that he finally couldn't stand the silence anymore. He had to clear his throat in order for his voice to travel even so small a distance.

*

“S-Sylar?”

Sylar tensed at the small sound, the first injection of human noise in a long time. Glancing over, he acknowledged that Peter was fully alert, if tired, and his cognitive functions seemed to have been restored, thank god. He'd been faintly aware of the change in energy surrounding the other man for some time, but had been far too swept up in memories to gift the attention it deserved.

Bennet's threat was prominent on his conscience, of course. So was Sylar's own, in response. He hoped he hadn't misjudged the ice and caused serious injury, even if they were the bad guys who arguably deserved it. ...And then there was Parkman's spell, cast out beneath it all like a blanket covering the entire expanse of his mind.

Every single ghost Sylar had shoved back during the escape to deal with later had returned with a vengeance inside the confines of this car, catching up to him now much worse than they would have at the time, he suspected. Every face, every scream, everything: love, loss, betrayal, obsession, murder, possession... there was no release from the twisted cavern of his own thoughts. That was, until Peter's voice shattered the world of black and red that he had inhabited for what felt like forever, drawing him out of the poisonous well like a hand reaching down to save him.

If only reality wasn't every bit as painful as his dreams.

“...Thank you.” Peter whispered. Although it was genuine, Sylar could tell that it pained the guy to say it. Maybe as much as it pained Sylar to hear it? “For... getting us outta there. Thank you.”

In response, the ex-killer's joints tightened and his knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. He couldn't bring himself to look his companion in the face. “Don't bother thanking me.” He didn't tear his eyes from the road.

*

...Oh. Peter frowned in concern, his friend's strong profile emanating disgust although his features were perfectly composed. His stomach swooped when he was hit by the realisation that he was in trouble. That Sylar was still angry with him. That by speaking he had reminded the man of how pathetic and stupid Peter was and how useless he had been throughout the entirety of the escape.

His tender wounds began to leak anew, so irritated as they were, and his throat tightened of its own accord. Of course he'd worried on the drive that this might happen, but to know for sure that the last person to stand by him was just as disappointed in him as all the others...?

Gripping the edge of the seat, Peter worked to make his voice come out at all. “What d'you mean?”

He would have forced himself not to assume the worst, if he hadn't been feeling so vulnerable. And if Sylar hadn't just shot him a look that so very plainly said 'what d'you think?'. The watchmaker tightly shook his head and concentrated on driving, the air around him colouring black with tension. Repulsion leaked over Peter's way, backing him further into his corner than he already was. Fuck.

“I...” Peter started then cut off, swallowing in a failed attempt to moisten his throat. His palms were beginning to sweat and those icy pins and needles were steadily working their way from his legs up the rest of his body. He couldn't bear the thought of Sylar turning on him, not now. He couldn't even entertain the thought of a fight. It was with great difficulty that he managed to croak out two little words in hopes they might save him. “I'm sorry.”

It hurt like the crack of a whip when the other man's gaze jabbed into him with vicious speed. “ _What?_ ” He hissed, that incredulous expression stirring more self hatred and the beginning of defence in Peter's chest. The empath fought not to visibly wince, but there was no way to hide the prickling sensation from spilling into his eyes.

“I said I'm sorry.”

“I heard you!”

“...Then why-?”

“Why are you _apologising?!_ ” Suddenly Sylar erupted, like the top had blown off the volcano of his anger. “Don't thank me! Don't apologise! After all the things I've done! How can you _sit_ there and say those things like I haven't _killed_ you and destroyed everything you've ever cared about?!”

“...What?! Sylar -”

“ _I am a monster,_ Peter! You can't keep pretending I'm not!”

Peter gaped, shaken to his senses as his friend's face contorted with raw emotion and the car began to swerve haphazardly across the road. It seemed he had severely misjudged the earlier silence. Uncurling himself from his huddled position by the window, Peter dived across to put a hand on Sylar's arm. “Hey – stop –”

“He was right! I don't deserve it – any of it! I don't deserve _you_! And I especially don't deserve your apology!”

After nothing but blatant silence for so long, the car was now filled to the brim with brutal noise; two competing voices, two bleeding hearts and multiple screeching wheels as the vehicle veered dangerously into the surrounding lanes. Lights continued to flash by outside and the odd car horn blared before fading. Sylar was demented, his cheeks blossoming red and his hands beginning to spark electricity on the wheel, meanwhile Peter found that his uncertainty had fled in the state of emergency.

“Sylar, stop the car.” He commanded gently, tightening his grip on his friend's forearm. “Stop the car, pull over... stop... pull over here...”

*

Grudgingly, Sylar allowed his company to somehow guide them to a squealing stop by the side of the road. His emotions only continued to flare once he stopped moving and accusations were rising like bullets in his mouth, but when he turned to blast them the aforementioned man's way, all intentions died a death like water thrown over a fire. Within an instant, Peter slipped out of his seat belt, leaned across the car and was upon him, strong arms encasing Sylar in a hug he hadn't known he craved until it was granted.

A whimper (a real, live, humiliating whimper) acted as a full stop to his tirade. The sound escaped him and Peter only pressed in closer, chest to chest and heartbeat to heartbeat. The little man didn't say anything more, and Sylar didn't think he even remembered what a voice box was in that moment. Everything evil and corrupt and painful floated free from the confines of his person as the simple, pure relief of human touch healed him from the inside.

Far too late, he closed his eyes and wrapped himself around the smaller body in return, fingers curling into fabric and holding Peter tight, overcome by the warmth of someone else's body against his own. That bliss, that he wasn't alone, that he wasn't hated even though he should be... it was unparalleled. It had been so long since Sylar had known more affectionate contact than a friendly tap on the knee, or a hand on his back or elbow... this was very different than that. So much so, that he caught himself falsely thinking he'd never before known a hug in his life. It was the most wonderful thing in the world, when said world didn't even owe him its table scraps.

And as for Peter? Sylar couldn't possibly bring himself to save the other man from him if it meant giving up this solace.

*

Breathing deeply into Sylar's shoulder, Peter traced his fingers blindly over the slashed tatters of the other man's jacket. Any ice had melted and dried long ago, and crusty blood dirtied the edges of each tear – the ones sustained to spare Peter the same treatment. Somebody _did_ care about him, as difficult as that was to accept sometimes.

His heart compressed and his eyes scrunched closed while he readjusted his hold on his friend, this familiar body that he had missed although they'd never been far apart. The hug felt like their first all over again, as if it had been years since their last, and right now it very well could have been. The feeling of another person's breathing soothed the empath, and he set his own pattern to match it for an indefinite stretch of relief.

It took most of the willpower he possessed to open his mouth and end this moment.

“What Matt did? What we – what we _saw_...?”

“Don't say “it doesn't matter”.” Sylar's voice was muffled somewhere in the ends of Peter's hair and he shivered. “It _does_. It _does_ matter, Peter, it was the truth and that's not going to change just because you say some magic words.”

Eyes still closed, Peter released his response along with almost all the breath in his lungs. “...I know.” He couldn't miss the slump to Sylar's body language, it amplified like a fracture through his own ribcage. He paused to gather enough air to continue, biting his lip as he struggled to word himself. “Magic words won't work... because nothing's gonna change unless _we_ do it. And we can, Sylar. Okay? We _can_ change it... we just have to help each other.”

*

Honesty, Sylar was just making the most of this brief respite until the weight of their chains pulled them back down to Earth. He didn't believe Peter's words of wisdom, and didn't let them lure him in when the truth was so inescapable. No matter what spiel the little hero shared with him, Sylar chose to close himself off and just allow the guy to talk if it would make him feel better.

“We have to help each other... and I think I know a way.”

It was then that something shifted. That suddenly things were different.

It wasn't even what Peter had said that sent shockwaves hurtling through Sylar. There wasn't a way to pinpoint the disturbance. It was only a sense of _knowing._ Of anticipation that tuned the intelligent man's brain into picking up every slight detail of the person encased around him. Peter squirmed ever so slightly, the muscles in his back rippled underhand and his breathing pitched. Sylar's heart began to race before he could even explain why.

“I've been thinking about this for a while, but... now I _know_ I want it.” Faulty lips stirred the fabric at Sylar's shoulder when they hesitated. “...I want you to do something for me. Something huge. I know you know how.”

Peter's quiet, husky voice lost steam, leaving the void to hang heavily between the pair. But Sylar didn't have to wait. Because swiftly it all made sense. He knew exactly what the other man was going to say before he said it.

Disentangling himself from the arms of his companion, Sylar pushed the guy back with both hands on his shoulders in order to make sure his addled brain was absorbing things correctly. Peter seemed to shine although there was no light upon him, and Sylar simply gawped into large, nervous yet unapologetic eyes. Holy shit.

“I want you to look inside my head. And I want you to fix my ability.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out the drawing I made for this chapter ^.^ [Your Every Secret](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10701150/chapters/27003483)
> 
> Okay, I know this was a mean place to end it X) But I hope it's got you wanting to find out what happens next! 
> 
> I'm so excited to get to this part of the story at last – that last scene in the car was one of the very first ones I ever planned for this story, way, way, way back at the very beginning, and it's so satisfying to have finally written and shared it with you guys! I hope you think it was worth the wait ^.^ (come on, the boys deserved a good hug after all the sh*t they've been through <3)
> 
> P.S. I'm just going to put this here because I don't really know how to advertise very well hehe: but I've been thinking of starting up doing fan art commissions, if enough people take an interest in it X) So please take a look at my gallery, and if you'd like to request a drawing then please feel free to get in touch! ^.^ [My Gallery](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10701150/chapters/23702379)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	18. The Only One I Trust

The sounds of the highway dimmed like someone had turned down the volume. Growling engines, muted radios and even tires on the asphalt faded into a nothingness that enveloped the lonely, stolen car parked by the ride of the road. Inside, blurred columns of light continued to swim across the windows, passing headlights glinted like jewels for only a second, mesmerising in their display, before the moment passed and they burned out into the distance. Everything was heightened from Sylar's perspective. Everything was reeling.

It took too long before he remembered he was supposed to respond.

“Please tell me this is Parkman screwing with your thoughts.”

If he couldn't feel the warmth of Peter Petrelli's arms as his hands numbly slipped off them, or see every truth in that expression, Sylar would've been certain he was caught in another mind trip. He was still shaken after what had happened in Odessa, what with Parkman having proved himself a master at replicating reality to perfection just to punish him. But although the cop might be able to more than do justice to buildings, plant life and skylines... the one thing he'd never been able to recreate was Peter.

“I'm serious.” The empath spoke quietly, his eyes burning with an earnest passion that couldn't be falsified. “Ever since my father –” He cut off to draw in a breath, as if the words themselves were as tainted as the memory. “...There's been this void. Inside me. This gap, and even though it hurts where my abilities used to be, they're not gone, Sylar! I can _feel_ them. I just can't... get to them.” Peter sighed, as if a great weight had been lifted at long last, and his gesturing hands fell still upon Sylar's shoulders. “I need this. Okay? I have for a long time. And I'm finally ready to _do_ something about it.”

Sylar couldn't blink away the absurdity of his friend's statement. Or stop the words from richochetting around his already bruised insides. He couldn't even be sure he was hearing this correctly. However, he could most definitely make his thoughts on this insanity clear in his tone. “...But why now?”

*

The sight of screaming flames, towers of bodies and his brother falling from his grasp echoed through Peter again at once. Failure, error, blame, love, loss... The painful lurch in his gut made him feel sick. It made him even more determined.

“Because I wanna be stronger.” The simple, husky sentence weighed far more than it should have done. “Faster. More powerful, I... I wanna be _better_.” He confessed into the intimate space, allowing his deep-rooted dream to tentatively rise towards the surface. It had been buried so long for fear of ridicule that it didn't remember light, but at last the tips of illumination were almost within reach... all Sylar had to say was “yes” and everything could be different.

Years of hopes and dreams and wishes and prayers were holding their breath inside Peter, gaining momentum from every time his failings had knocked him down. He'd been pretending everything was fine for far too long, endlessly mourning in secret the strength he had been stripped of against his will – even in the past months alone. How many times had he and Sylar tried to help someone and Peter had been forced to stand on the sidelines because he couldn't keep up with his partner in crime? How many times had his inadequacy screwed up their missions along the way...? Today alone, he'd led his only remaining friend into the heart of danger, got them both caught and assaulted and hadn't even been able to aid in their escape! He couldn't even think what must have happened to Micah yet, for their exit to have been so messy. The whole day was another ugly stain on his conscience, the last in a continuous stream of them that had no end in sight.

Unless... Peter could finally _change_ that.

It was this last thought that broke a small, hopeful smile onto his lips, despite the ordeal back at Renautas and Sylar's current, dumbfounded expression.

“Don't you think it would make our job easier if I had access to more than one power at a time?” He coaxed hoarsely, fidgeting in his seat. “We could do _so_ much more, be in ten places at once if we wanted – don't you see?” Injecting a gentle squeeze into Sylar's shoulders, he was desperate to share with his friend the same vision that was coiling wondrously through himself. “I just need you... to open the barrier inside me. To fix what's broken.” The car walls could have been a hundred miles thick, dividing the pair from the rest of the uncaring world in a place where no one could find them. It was only Sylar, Peter, and the latter's pounding heart bearing witness to this crucial exchange. “Can you do that for me, bud?”

Sylar's face was impossible to read. He appeared to be almost in a trance-like state: tousled from his earier outburst but unaware of it, dark eyes blown wide and drinking in the sight of Peter as if he were as foreign as the first time they'd met. When the man opened his mouth and licked his lips, his voice was faint in their surroundings.

“By... looking inside your brain?”

Peter nodded sincerely and tilted his head, the better to delve into the other man's eyes for all he was worth. At long last, liberation was _just_ out of sight, just around the next corner, and with this ally by his side the last corner after millions more was no obstacle at all.

“That _is_ what you do, right? Work out people's brains, their abilities?” Peter's smile grew microscopically. He was unable not to inch even nearer to his companion until they were almost close enough to be embracing again.

Until Sylar's face contorted, and he shoved Peter backwards with two hands to the chest.

“ _DID!_ That's what I _DID!_ ”

*

Sylar was vaguely aware of the smaller man's surprise, as if this reaction was the last thing on Earth he'd expected. However, now that the initial shock had lifted this was a small blip on the ex-killer's radar, the rest of it bleeding red and infecting his nervous system.

What the _fuck_ was this?! Sylar couldn't _believe_ what he was hearing! What Peter was saying! But the denial was nothing compared to the jagged, poisoned fireball beginning to blaze its way up his throat, gaining momentum. “That's what I've spent the better part of a _DECADE_ trying to let go, Peter!”

“Wait -”

“What the hell are you _thinking_?!” Sylar bellowed with a swipe of both arms, glaring at the other man but seeing only his own past as it played out like a film reel plastered across his eyes. “Do you have _ANY_ idea what you're asking me to do?!” He couldn't hold back the flood of visions that swarmed him for the dozenth time that night: hundreds upon hundreds of victims, the whispers from his nightmares, the taunts in his ear, the blood on his hands, terror, fury, regret and disgust rippling over his skin in goosebumps that ran a mile deep...

“Well, yeah! But I didn't mean -”

“What the hell did you think I was going to _say_?!” Sylar demanded, fighting to blot out fury from his sight in order for his subject to fade into focus again. How the fuck could Peter even _attempt_ to look hurt right now? _He_ was hurting?! Well he damn well wasn't the only one!

*

There was suddenly no air in Peter's lungs. No more excitement in his eyes. His walls closed over with a frown as the tender flush of hope retreated back the way it had come, replaced instead by guilt-marred confusion.

He didn't understand. Shouldn't this have been a good thing? That Sylar wouldn't need to keep babysitting him through every mission because he'd be able to actually _help_ instead of just slowing them down? It was insane that two people could go from sharing such understanding just seconds ago, such a connection inside this small car, to the total opposite so quickly. The contrast was giving Peter vertigo.

His chest was smarting from more than the shove, and he tried not to show how wounded he was by the amount of space the former villain's temper was consuming inside the car, like steam expanding until it pressed stiflingly against all sides. Was it foolish to hope that this was just imagination and he hadn't yet broken the unbearable silence on the drive home?

“I thought you'd be happy.” His voice was pathetically small compared to Sylar's, his foolish thoughts cast aside as if they were nothing by the force of the guy's outrage. It stung like a kick to the gut.

*

Fuck – that face! The way that Peter was badly attempting to hide his poor, hurt _feelings_ as if he'd done nothing wrong felt like a personal jab. Like he was doing it just to get at Sylar. Well it worked, alright!

He couldn't even decide what hurt the most: being confronted by such an invitation while his scars were newly re-opened and aching, or the fact that Peter had even the slightest belief that he would do what had been asked of him. How pathetic Sylar was. How _disgusting._ How could he ever be “good” the right way when not even Peter Petrelli believed in him?!

He could barely muster up more than an affronted hiss. “You thought I'd _happily_ rip open your head...?”

Growling down upon the man in question, Sylar could still feel the lingering warmth of that body against his own. It didn't feel wonderful anymore. Within a minute, his biggest relief, his safe place, had been tainted – Peter doubted his penitence and that felt like being shattered inside by one of Parkman's goddamned sledgehammers.

“You think I'm just waiting for any excuse to go back to my old ways? “All it takes is one temptation” - is that what you think when you look at me?!” His voice shook in a way that would have been embarrassing had he not been so furious.

“What? No! Sylar, of _course_ not!”

Despite himself, Sylar coughed out a bitter laugh, scorching his company with a withering look. “Oh, okay, so you only expect me to replase when it suits your own selfish need for power...?”

The horror etching into Peter's features was difficult to witness, but Sylar rode it out with a snarl. He was having none of it. There was no way the guy didn't know what he'd started, here! Most of the time it was easy to forget the poisonous womb from which Peter was born, but Petrelli blood was rife with lies and manipulation and, at times like this, was impossible to ignore. That bunch always attacked when prey was at its lowest, and Sylar should've known better! He should've been smarter! Despite everything they'd encountered together over the years, why hadn't Sylar learned his lesson by now...?

*

If he looked around right then to see the pain in his ribcage was Tracy Strauss piercing his torso with another frozen spike, Peter wouldn't even have been surprised. Any reply evaporated while his senses banded together to convince him that yes, Sylar really _had_ just said such a vicious thing about him. And about himself, too. Temptation? Relapse? What? The words caught Peter by as much surprise as Sylar's rage had. Shit. Shit, shit, it was all going wrong... so, so wrong...

He fought to get a handle on himself before things only got worse. Balling his fists and staring, unseeing, at the glowing highway stretching out for miles on either side, he steeled himself and listened to his own breathing. It was loud and ragged, growing harder to control as he tried to force away the pressure that was building behind his forehead.

Setting his jaw and running a hand through his hair, Peter gripped it tightly before letting it drop and splay carelessly over his face. “No.” He returned his fiery gaze onto Sylar as he relived the guy's dismissal and accusation over again. His voice grew louder the more he spoke. “I didn't mean it like that and you know it! I meant this would be a _good_ thing, that it could _help_ us help more people!”

“Right, of course, because it's never about you, is it?”

At that, Peter rocked back in his seat. The hit was so hard he was practically seeing stars. “...What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

*

Suddenly, Sylar felt claustrophobic in the small car with Peter, far too compressed an arena for an unstoppable force and an immovable object about to come to blows. Scrabbling for leverage on the door handle, he released a venomous scoff before clambering out onto the side of the road. “Whatever.”

The night air kissed his face soothingly as he stomped a few steps away from the car, kicking up dust on the way. They'd pulled over on a remote stretch of road lined by thickets of trees on each side: a silent, watchful audience that gave only the illusion of privacy.

A car door slammed behind Sylar and furious, crunching footsteps followed.

*

“Not “whatever”!” Peter stormed around the vehicle and right up to his taller adversary, his temper and wounds both increasing in depth. Of course emotions were already running high after the disastrous trip to Renautas, and even as Peter opened his mouth he knew they were both just upset and scared and it was coming out the wrong way because they had no other release than each other. Still, he couldn't stop himself. “Say it! _What did you mean_?”

He was so angry by the other man's sudden outburst that he wanted to shove him in the back the moment he got close enough. Sylar had done so to him first, after all! Instead he barely refrained by clenching his fists so tightly his nails stabbed his palms.

“You know perfectly well what I mean, Peter.”

“Do I?!”

When Sylar deigned to turn around, he bore down with the haughty, superior manner that the empath had used to despise back in the day. But it felt different now, so different. Because this time it wasn't the taunting gloat of a serial killer who knew he'd won: this time it was the look of a friend who was about to bombshell an ugly truth.

“You're telling me this is 100% selfless? That it has _nothing_ to do with the fact you haven't been right since we broke through that wall?”

A cargo truck belted its horn on the way past. Peter swore for a moment that it had somehow hit him and dragged his body along behind. But his boots were settled upon loose dirt and twigs, he hadn't moved a muscle, and Sylar was still pouring the mass of his question upon him like molten lava.

And as much as he tried, he simply couldn't answer.

*

Sylar sighed and ground his teeth as Peter seemed to fade away before him. The guy refused to tear his sparkling eyes away from the watchmaker's, beaten by the final body-blow as shreds of his armour flaked off and floated away into the darkness even as the ex-killer watched. He was pretty sure his anger would have fizzled out then and there if Peter hadn't started the whole thing so carelessly then played the victim as soon as he was called out on it. And if the day hadn't been one of Sylar's worst in a long time.

He should have stopped right there. He knew that. This topic was one he had promised himself to break gently, on a quiet night in, on a good day, with pizza and ice cream and tact, but it was too late to backtrack now. And as Sylar's rage flushed through him anew, he wasn't even sure he wanted to.

His voice ricohetted like a shot in the dark, sending birds rustling out of the trees. “Did you think I wouldn't notice?! That I don't _know_ you?! Running non-stop without taking a second to breathe just so you can feel worthwhile isn't fooling me, Peter! And it sure as hell isn't fooling you either!”

A scowling Peter merely flinched. He stood his ground like he was rooted to the spot, terrified but facing the raging bull head on no matter how much it would hurt. Still fuming, Sylar didn't bother to resist the crest of emotion that carried his feet forward until he was glowering just inches above his rapt audience.

“I get it!” He spat, blood pounding in his ears. “This is your grand plan to “change it all” - you don't want us to help each other: you want _me_ to magically make _you_ better! You don't want to feel that you left yourself back in that dream! You want to be able to fly _and_ regenerate in case it'll somehow make your godforsaken family come crawling back as if they never kicked you out on your ass like you don't mean a thing to them!”

It seemed to take a long time for those words to escape him, linger in the air like particles of dust, and then settle upon the two trembling evos.

It was when Peter's lower lip twitched askew, just a little, that Sylar was gifted both the sudden desire and strength to force down the volume on his temper. He struggled to catch his breath and couldn't look away, as the vulnerable young man who Peter had been burying for weeks under hero-duty and false smiles became plainly visible through the cracks in his facade. Sylar recognised him, even though he hadn't set eyes on him properly until now. He could have wept for the guy had the current circumstances been different.

He spoke lowly this time, darkly. “It won't work.” As his voice began to choke, he folded his arms tightly, protectively, across his chest, but it didn't keep the pain at bay. “You just have to live with who you are and the life you've had. Trust me, there is no easy fix like having me flick a switch in your brain, and even if there was _how_ could you – ” At last, Sylar's voice broke on him and he turned away again, the sting behind his eyes finally too much to conceal.

...Suddenly he's surrounded by that circle of shadows in the darkness: bound, gagged, exposed, stripped of everything but his sins. There's blood on his naked skin like war paint, like tattoos, and hundreds of mutilated people crowd around him and hiss as he cries and tries to hide while they keep kicking his leaking wounds. _You're inhuman. You're never going to change._ This _is who you are..._

“H-how could you ask me to take that chance? When I could lose... everything... everything I've worked for?”

*

Peter's chest heaved as if he'd ran all the way here from Texas. His legs felt like they were made of lead. He wanted to yell or curl up on the dirt right here, he wanted to disappear or try to outrun the feelings that shackled him in place, but mostly he wanted to punch Sylar in the nose while comforting him at the same time. Because he got it now. Finally.

Unseen by present company, his eyes slid closed and his head bowed in shame. Shit. The lacerations on his emotions continued to ooze, but the gnawing pain was nothing compared to the empathy that suddenly eclipsed centre stage inside him. Peter's anger cooled down to a simmer, active but on the sidelines for now, and the marks Sylar's cutting words had left upon him would still need tender care in privacy, but later.

Feeling despicable, he peeked up through the protective veil of his hair at the shadow of a tall, slender man breaking the glow of streetlights beyond. It was as if someone had cut around Sylar and removed him from the picture entirely. His back was to Peter again, and when the empath shuffled forward the bloody slashes in his friend's jacket loomed through the darkness.

Peter's heart compressed for the dozenth time that night. After everything Sylar had just done for him... After saving his life for the countless time, after taking the hit for him – even after letting Peter drag him to Renautas in the first place! – the last thing Peter wanted was to add to the suffering the guy was already enduring.

“Sylar...” He murmured, barely audible over the lump in his throat and the whooshing of the highway beside them. Peter approached the recovering murderer with a tentative hand to his back, inching around to see as much of Sylar's face as he would allow. “You won't lose everything. You _won't_. Y'know why? 'Cause you're strong. You can _do_ this, you've got the most self control outta anyone I know!”

He rubbed small, encouraging circles into Sylar's back the way he'd used to comfort distressed patients, the same way he wished someone would do for him right now. The fabric of his being was fraying at the edges and wearing thin in the middle, but Peter had never been one to ask for comfort. He was a giver, no matter how badly he longed for reassurance, himself.

Clearing his throat, he continued speaking quietly near Sylar's shoulder, the same one he had been pressed against just minutes before. “C'mon, buddy. You think I'd ask for this if I thought you weren't capable? Huh? You're the _only_ person I'd ask, the...” He chewed his lip, relocating his voice. “...The only one I trust to do it.”

“I'm the only one who _could_.”

Sylar shifted slightly, either in a shrug or a shudder, but Peter shook his head and held on tighter. “That doesn't mean I don't trust you.”

For a long while, everything was tense against the backdrop of the highway. Peter wavered out here on this extended branch, his defenses down, his heart on his sleeve, taking a chance and despising each passing second. His faith in this man was hardly a world-ending revelation, and it wasn't news to Sylar, but saying it aloud this way made Peter extremely aware of where he was and who he was talking to. It was another of those moments where reality fractured and Peter could look back along the tumultuous crevice of his and Sylar's journey, taking note of every misshapen boulder along the way. Union Wells; Kirby Plaza; The Stanton Hotel; Mercy Heights; Matt's basement; everything that had transpired behind the wall; and everything that had transpired since. It was a distinct “before” and “after” with a multi-coloured, multi-layered transition in the middle. No, it wasn't the most beautiful path they'd left in their wake – far from it – but it was the most genuine, the most true, and the most important one to Peter alongside those of his family.

Currently, he looked upon his friend, his only remaining ally, aware of every feeling and interaction over the years that had worked to bring them to this moment. When Sylar finally gave in and succumbed to Peter's gaze, and his face was pink and his eyes were heavy, it was obvious that he was aware of them too.

Then he pulled free, disentangling himself from Peter's touch for the second time in less than five minutes. “Well... we both know your track record when it comes to trust, don't we?”

Peter shook once from head to toe. He dropped his hands limply by his sides as he took the entire hit uncensored. Son of a bitch.

*

Yes, Sylar saw what his words had done. He saw all compassion rightfully drain from Peter's face and defensiveness take its place, even through the hot blurriness that had crept across his vision. But he was too angry, too haunted and too far gone to say sorry. Because why should he? It would all just go wrong anyway, everything would crumble, everything would break, and that was if Peter didn't somehow drop dead first due to proximity alone with this self-destructive monster...

“Is this because of what Matt did today?” Peter accused, his voice no longer smooth like honey, but taut like over-wound bass strings. “What did he show you?”

“The _truth_!” Sylar burst open again with arms out wide, beyond caring that they were likely drawing attention from the ordinary little people in their ordinary little cars droning past in their ordinary little lives. “He showed me who I _am_! Sylar the killer, the animal, the boogeyman who will never be more than his filthy past no matter how hard he tries to outrun it!”

“Well maybe you won't if you never allow yourself to _be_ more!”

*

Peter said it in the heat of the moment. But he regretted it instantly. He regretted it even before Sylar's face twisted into the rarest of expressions: the one that even years worth of protecting himself and pretending to be untouchable couldn't hope to contain. It had been a long time since Peter had managed to procure that look. Much longer since he had used to do so deliberately.

Damn it. Sucking in a steadying breath, he lifted a hand in an attempt to bridge the growing divide between himself and his companion. “Look... I'm sorry. Okay? I shouldn't have...”

But then his voice refused to co-operate further, once a familiar, dreaded aura washed over the other man. Peter saw it creep around him like smoke, but was so appalled that he couldn't do more than stare and let it happen without him.

*

Sylar wanted to embrace the other guy's earlier claims of faith, but every bruised thought was warning him against it. How could the little hero really care about him? How could he trust him when all Sylar did in life was destroy everything he was given? Peter would offer himself up on a silver platter, so naïve, so deluded, he'd willingly put his life in the bloodstained hands of the guy who'd ended a thousand others? It was preposterous! But not because he didn't trust Peter. Because he didn't trust himself.

He'd hurt this man again. Been hurt worse in response. He was so angry, offended, so betrayed he couldn't even handle it – he had to be alone, he needed space, but mostly he could _not_ be confronted with more of his own bestowed desolation right now. He'd had more than enough of that for this lifetime.

*

Sylar sighed softly, the unshed aggravation in his eyes catching car headlights. “...God knows I've done a lot of things for you, Peter.” His voice was barely more than a whisper, underlined by an unshakable promise. “But this is not going to be one of them.”

As he stared, Peter tried to unstick his voice but he wasn't fast enough. “Wait – don't –!”

It was a pointless last ditch-effort, for he knew it still wouldn't have stopped Sylar from kicking off from the ground and falling out of his reach into the darkness above. He couldn't prevent it from happening or tell himself it hadn't as he was left, gasping and alone, in the empty space that his friend had just vacated.

Horror. Disbelief. Rage. Terror. Devastation. They crashed down upon his solitary form one after the other, over and over again, each reaction more painful than the last until he couldn't even breathe. Abandoned by the side of the highway with a stolen car and fresh mental bruises, Peter tried with all his might to fend off the recollection of Nathan doing almost the exact same thing to him in Haiti, and to stop a repeat of the emotional aftermath. But like in most undertakings in his life, he failed.

Dumbfounded, he stared up into the inky well of night that had just consumed his last human connection. He couldn't process what had just happened. How could Sylar – _how_ could he just –?! Sure, their fights usually ended in someone storming out – but that was when the city had been harmless and imaginary and _theirs_! Not very much alive and teeming with dangers much more real than empty buildings!

Suddenly feeling tiny in the vast, expansive world, Peter cast his eyes around himself with fear lassoing his throat and isolation gripping his spine. The treeline was much darker than it had been seconds ago. The cars ten times louder. New York City seemed a million miles further away. And Peter was alone.

His face shattered and he scrubbed a shaking hand over it and into his hair, stumbling back to the car before he lost all sense of sight and direction. He felt his way to the driver's side and dropped onto the seat, slamming the door so hard the glass pane shook. Then he just sat there, because he didn't know what else to do.

He had no intentions of driving just yet. Even if he'd been in a fit enough state. Because where could he go? Where did _Sylar_ go? Was this temporary? What if it wasn't? What the hell was he supposed to do now? How could he _begin_ to consider what this meant in the grand scheme of the rest of his fucked up life?!

It shouldn't have gone like that. It was never supposed to turn into a fight. And so quickly too? Goddammit! So Sylar was afraid of his past, that was understandable, but he had no right to vent it the way he had done! Sure, Peter realised now that he should have kept his proposition to himself until a better time, but he hadn't known what was about to happen! Obviously, if he _had_ known he'd never have said anything in the first place! But it was supposed to _help_ , supposed to bring them _together_ , to be the next step forward in their shared journey after the mess of today... not the final one.

The car was dark inside, smelling faintly of Sylar, of them. Stomach convulsing, Peter moaned through gritted teeth and gripped the steering wheel with both hands until it hurt, as if he could hope to channel the burn of surrender that scorched his heart and spilled over his lashes despite his best efforts.

Working his jaw madly, he scowled at nothing but a distorted film of hot tears, forced his lungs to stutter into inhaling and exhaling and punched a fist repeatedly over his flailing heart, but none of it did any good. It didn't compensate for the fight, for the rejection, for the pain, for the fear, for the live finale of Matt's mind games... for losing the last person he cared about. The one who _knew_ how much it would hurt, the one he'd so foolishly believed would be different than all the others –!

There was a quiet thump nearby.Peter jolted and blinked rapidly, in order to see out the front window to where a man's long legs were illuminated by the headlights where they hadn't been a second before. They straightened up and headed for the passenger side door. And then it was pure, raw resentment that took the helm inside Peter.

He only had enough time to hurriedly swipe at his eyes, fight to control his breathing and squeeze the steering wheel tighter, refusing to so much as acknowledge his visitor with a look.

*

Sylar stiffly opened the car door, his hair windswept and cheeks stinging from the brief flight. He didn't say anything when he climbed inside, because he didn't know what to say and they both knew why he'd given up the quick route home to come back, anyway. As humiliating as it was to return.

He was still far too enraged to dream of apologising, but not so much to lose track of his only, emotionally unstable, friend in the real world that could swallow him up forever. He knew it was the right course of action to come back, even if he didn't want to acknowledge it, and even before Peter badly covered a sniffle and fought to compose himself. Sylar would have believed without a doubt that the crocodile tears were a blatant tactic to manipulate him into feeling guilty, if Peter wasn't trying so hard to hide any sign of them. And if he didn't know the little shit as well as he did.

The two men sat in a toxic, ringing silence, both refusing to look at the other or be the first to initiate reconciliation. They didn't so much as twitch in one another's direction before Peter pulled the car back onto the highway and set off towards the distant silhouette of home.

***

Inside Charles Devaux's apartment, everything was still. Deathly silent. A clock ticked faintly from somewhere amongst polished wood and expensive furniture, and the distant city ambiance pushed against the windows from far below. There was no indication that two occupants were hiding within these walls, not even an unconscious twitch of a finger or a disjointed mumble in sleep – because both men were wide awake and unmoving.

Peter knew this. He knew Sylar was just as bad at obsessing over every detail of a fight as he was. There was no way either of them would get any sleep tonight, even if Matt Parkman hadn't stocked them up with enough nightmare fuel to last for years.

He huffed out a dejected breath. The pair hadn't exchanged one word since Sylar's brief departure. They hadn't said a thing for the entire drive back, or the extremely awkward elevator ride up from the lobby, and hadn't dared to look at each other before storming away to their individual rooms like sullen teenagers. Peter despised it. And he resented that he was trapped living with Sylar after a fight, that he didn't have the freedom of his own place to stay at until he cooled down.

But he liked being in this room. If he had to anxiously idle away the night somewhere, he didn't mind at all that it was in this giant, soft, comfortable bed. He'd always liked this space, had a lot of good memories here with Charles in his last months. So when Sylar had so graciously offered this room to Peter that first night, he had accepted it without complaint. Not for the first time, he was grateful for that. Sure, it was a little weird at first, but it didn't freak Peter out the way it did his roommate that Charles had passed away right here. Death didn't sicken him that way, when it was natural and peaceful like Charles' was. The man had died the way he'd wanted to, and that was all you could ask for.

Peter had grown to cherish feeling so close to his old friend in this room. It made him feel safe, close to one of the many souls he'd lost. Usually, no matter how tough a day or rescue mission had gone, Peter had no trouble drifting off to sleep in here because he knew that Charles was watching over him.

But tonight, it wasn't helping.

Unsettled again, he gathered the duvet from around his waist and hoisted it up high, wrapping up warm in the protection of fabric that could save him from his fears... even though he had done this whole rigmarole four times by now and knew it wouldn't take. Peter curled onto his side, casting an over-tired gaze out the windows, through the adjacent skyscrapers and over Central Park. It felt like he'd been lying awake for hours, but in reality it probably hadn't been that long. The sky was now a lilac gradient touching the base of the horizon, dragging morning behind the sunrise and also, along with it, a new day. The world was still turning and life would continue on, no matter if Peter decided to wait out his dispute with Sylar, be the bigger person and break the ice, or just never make his mind up at all.

Of course sleep wasn't an option. Every time his exhausted mind _finally_ strayed from the tall, dark and furious watchmaker, Peter was only revisited by Matt's visions all over again. Failing to save lives, not being good enough, losing everyone he came into contact with... obviously, this only brought him back around to Sylar in some shape or form. Either as the reason _for_ the failure or as a victim of it too. And then there was Micah. Poor Micah, who had believed in him – in _them –_ to save the day and be heroes... Peter's heart couldn't take the guilt, because he knew that whatever horrors might have happened to the kid for being kind enough to help the infamous “evo vigilantes”... it was his fault. He wasn't capable enough to prevent, fix or undo any of it, and thanks to Sylar he likely never would be! ...Sylar. So it was back to Sylar. Again.

Shit. Peter rolled onto his back with another sigh, disentangling an arm from the duvet to throw it over his eyes. Why couldn't he be one of those people who steamrolled their way through life without thinking about other people's feelings? Why did he always have to care so much? Why was he simultaneously feeling awful about his tactlessness in the car, and so offended and enraged at Sylar for what he'd said and how he'd acted that guilt and anger were balancing each other out perfectly? He didn't know what to do. He was aching all over, his cranium fit to burst due to too many doubts, and his ribcage close to imploding due to taking so many emotional punches in a day.

The punches hurt more because they were true. Because they'd hit the bullseye spot-on each time, leaving rippled bruises to form outwards from the heart of the impact.

Peter wished he'd never asked his friend to fix his ability. But only because of how the guy had reacted. In terms of the idea itself, Peter yearned for it with every throb of his heart, more now than ever because he'd allowed himself to taste the idea too soon and get carried away. He wished yesterday hadn't happened at all. That he'd never dragged an innocent kid into the shitshow of Renautas, never found Noah's plans for that goddamed restrainment device, or bumped into Matt and not only gotten himself royally fucked up, but Sylar too...

Now feeling strangled in the confines of the duvet, Peter wriggled with the thing until he pushed it all the way off, letting the air in the room soothe his clammy skin.

Sylar was seriously hurting right now. He had good reason to be. Peter didn't like the idea of the man succumbing to his wounds alone in the next room, especially while being responsible for them, and his heart only stuttered further when he recalled Sylar's hunched shoulders and choked voice from earlier. But was the other guy feeling the same way in return? Did he even spare a thought to how carelessly he'd wrenched Peter's hope away and broken it until all that remained was a crumpled, muddy mess amongst the trees? Not to mention how ruthless he'd been with his words. It wasn't just Peter's duty to wave the white flag! _Two_ people had fought and _two_ people were capable of apologising, and it damn well wasn't Peter's sole responsibility to go first every single time! Right...?

He hated feeling this way. Hated not having the luxury of endless time and an empty city to escape into until he cooled down, and hated knowing that Sylar was hiding so close to him right now, feeling just as conflicted as Peter and hating him right back.

Rubbing both hands over his face and into his hair, Peter recalled the way Sylar had torn open the walls of his chest as easily as ripping apart a shirt, exposing the private, naked truths for all the world to see... the truths that Peter had fought so hard to keep secret. It made his eyes well with unshed tears of humiliation all over again. It had been vicious, but not malicious, because Sylar was right about him. Peter knew that he was severely screwed up. Far more than he wanted to admit, far more than any rescuer should be. Yet he also knew he was never going to stop putting himself in harm's way when his input could make any slight difference to the world.

He probably should consider therapy. Sylar was probably thinking the same thing. But it could never happen. It wasn't that the idea was off-putting (in fact, the thought of being able to spill his guts to a random third party without getting shut down or laughed at was very appealing indeed), it was that there was no way he could seek medical help like a normal person.

What the hell could he possibly say that wouldn't get him shipped off in a straight jacket? Even if the world was now aware of super-powered humans? He was a wanted fugitive due to his superhuman abilities; he'd been involved in the concealment of evos for years; he'd died more times than he could count; his mother was an evil mastermind; his brother had been murdered and Peter was living with the guy who _did_ it? Oh yeah, and he'd lived another life inside that killer's head, and now was so fucked up by it that he couldn't even walk down a busy street without nearly having a breakdown...? Yeah right.

So therapy was off the table. And Peter knew himself well enough to know that he could act everyone else's saviour, but he would never be his own. He couldn't do it by himself. The only constant left in Peter's life was the reformed, super-powered, pissed off serial killer in the next room who wasn't speaking to him, and that in itself was the least of his worries. Fucking hell.

Peter ran his hands drowsily through his hair, restless and watching the shadows of the city chase each other across the walls of the room at a snail's pace. He hadn't felt this lonely in a long time. The guilt, however, was a sensation he was only too familiar with. Peter recalled Charles Devaux's kindly smile and the way he'd always had a wise anecdote for every situation, and wished with all his heart to be able to speak to him now...

Literally every other crutch in his arsenal had broken, and he didn't want to acknowledge how sad it was that his only friend to turn to right now was a dead man. But he was desperate, after all. Or maybe just overtired.

“What do you think I should do?” He whispered to Charles. There was no reply. But the moment he spoke, Peter was aware that he didn't even need one anyway. As he sighed again and once more battled with the goddamned bedcovers, he knew deep down that all he'd needed was the illusion of having someone listen to him.

*

God, Sylar was hungry. Make that starving – no, _ravenous_. He hadn't eaten for hours and hours, and was reaping the effects of that negligence now. He felt sick, due only to his empty stomach, he insisted. It had to be that. He felt hollow, gaping inside, and the ache inside his torso only grew with passing time, so what else could it be...? He chose not to follow that train of thought.

He was tired, too. _Beyond_ tired by this point, actually. The departure of night was pressing on him like full darkness, as if he were lying on the seabed with the weight of the ocean above, but he was not so pathetic as to fashion himself a nightlight. So instead he merely continued to lie on his back and match his breathing to the ticking of the clock nearby.

It was ridiculous to think that the mutilated bodies from his past might crawl out of the shadows to grab him in his bed, but the childish fear would not let go of him and for that Sylar blamed Employee of the Month Matt Parkman.

It was now light enough in the room that all portals in the darkness had shut, but Sylar could still feel the presence of ghosts nearby, too close to let his guard down as they approached like figures stroking the bedroom door. They reached for him, cursed him, wept for all that he'd done to them... Sylar shivered. Then hated himself for doing so. Warding off memories of past victims was one thing, a task that he had come to excel at most days. Meanwhile, trying not to remember that the most recent one was only seconds away was another altogether.

Fuck Peter. _Fuck_ him and his ideals. How could someone so sensitive be so pig-headed sometimes as to rival his deceased elder brother...? The ex killer wrestled with his sheets and punched his pillows, trying and failing to get comfortable.

Fucking _heroes_. They were always much more trouble than they should've been. Disgustingly sanctimonious, always prepared to paint themselves in the right until it suited them better to play the victim fighting their way back to an underdog's happy ending, for all but the villain of course... the villain who, surprise, surprise, happened to be Sylar.

After struggling with his bed to no avial, he was forced to sit up, squeezing his palms into his eyes as if that could entice his warring thoughts and stomach to settle down. Dammit, if only the hollowness inside would stop expanding like it was and let him feel wronged in peace! But that would be a grace he didn't deserve.

Sylar knew he had earned himself the label of bad guy tonight. After over-reacting and tearing his friend into pieces the way he had done. The guy's idea had been next-level idiotic (even for Peter Petrelli!) and it damn well was deserving to be called out after stabbing the sore spot inside Sylar! Just not the way it had been. Not at the expense of throwing the guy's vulnerabilities into his face in the heat of the moment when no punches were pulled and everything was more fragile. Sure, the empath's witless words had hit far too close to home and snapped something inside Sylar but, grudgingly, the watchmaker didn't for one moment think that Peter would have said what he had if he'd known how badly it would hurt.

But he had still said it. He had still argued back.

Okay, not as ferociously as Sylar had, but Peter was still as much to blame for the fight as Sylar! He _was._ Definitely. He wasn't just the victim of this murderer's latest rampage – he'd dealt his own low blows and Sylar wasn't stupid enough to miss that the _caring, empathetic_ Mother Theresa was also yet to take responsibility for the damage he'd done!

Then Sylar froze from head to toe. ...Unless?

He listened to the yawning stretch of silence filling the apartment, but it didn't fool him twice. The little fucker.

After an age, a second creak of a floorboard was muffled from the hall and Sylar's insides burned like fire. Hands halfway down from his face, hair sticking up oddly at one side, his eyes were wide and observant as they locked onto the sliver of space at the bottom of the bedroom door. A shadow crept into sight and his heart shot away like a firework set free too early, torching him every time it slammed into a different wall of his chest.

Compared to just minutes ago, nightmare zombies were the furthest thing from his mind. All at once, the frightening room was merely an enclosure for furniture, ornaments and restless nights, an unimposing space that embraced the crest of morning. It was insignificant. Insignificant now that Sylar was to be proven even more of an asshole in his sulking, and he wasn't even sure if he could resent it.

But nothing happened. The shadow beneath the door hovered silently. Sylar's brow slid low and his hackles crept out of hiding. And the very real, very current issue of his roommate's greedy arrogance washed over him for the thousandth time that night

Sylar could feel the other's eyes upon him. As if there weren't a slab of wood in the way. He could practically hear Peter's heartbeat racing his own as the words struggled to form on his tongue. The two evos could sense each other, caught in the battle of wills, so close but with one last hurdle in the way that neither had the courage to break.

Sylar dared Peter to open the door. Even though he didn't even know if he wanted to see the guy yet. Maybe just to get the gracious hero showing him up for the countless time over and done with? Or maybe to have the satisfaction of slamming the thing in his face? He could do it from right here, with less than a thought. ...He could also wrench it open if he so chose, and throw the guy into confronting him before he was ready...

The seconds stretched on and the door didn't budge, from either side.

That slip of shadow shifted again, to the tune of timid scuffing sounds. And then a soft thud of a palm touching the door vibrated all the way to Sylar's core. It wasn't a knock. The noise made him waver as it reverberated through him, dislodging his scowl along with the rusted, ugly anchors of last night's grudge to make way for an unresistricted airflow.

Sylar dropped his eyes, picking at his bedcovers just for something to do. He knew surrender too well to mistake.

Peter's shadow disappeared and his footsteps retreated, leaving the conflicted ex-murderer to admit to himself that he'd been wrong before. Wrong about heroes... wrong about Peter... wrong about that void in his stomach that had just cracked considerably deeper. It had never been due to food deprivation, after all.

***

The morning was cool up here, even though summer was almost upon the city. The breeze carried a shiver within it and the metal step beneath Peter had long since spread a chill through his bones, but he ignored it. He'd barely drank half a mug of coffee before it had gone cold in his hands, his attention too distracted by the sight of the world thriving far below, above and all around him.

The new day was undeniable now, ushered in by one hell of a sunrise that had made staying up all night almost feel worth it. Peter closed his eyes and wondered if he might finally pass out right here, exhausted, huddled on a fire escape, serenaded by the couple downstairs shrieking about whose turn it was to wash the breakfast dishes. But just because the sun was awake didn't mean his night terrors had ceased.

He tugged up the collar of his jacket against the breeze and swiped his billowing hair out of his eyes, unwilling to lose sight of his self-proclaimed charge for even a moment. Especially now that his ever-present urge to contribute was working overtime. He was sitting fully dressed below the police scanner on the step above, although he didn't know why he'd even bothered to come out here. The scanner wasn't switched on. And it wasn't like he would just take off running if a serious call came through, anyway. Not when he couldn't face bursting into Sylar's room and dragging him off to fight again while things between them were as unresolved as they were. And not when Peter didn't think he could handle a mission alone in his current state.

But he kept the thing closeby, just in case. It helped, a little, to live the illusion for a while longer.

*

Sylar hesitated at the top of the fire escape. Despite the relief at recovering his companion after searching every empty room in the apartment, he wondered if he really wanted to get into a conversation so soon after a fight. When the wounds on both sides were still fresh. He wondered if Peter would even want to look at him right now. He wondered if he should speak or knock or do something definitive to announce his presence, rather than continue to just stand here looking down on the guy like the sort of stalker-like creep he'd used to be.

Before he could decide, however, Peter spoke in a soft tone that was thick with resignation. “You were right, Sylar.” He didn't turn around, but by the sound of it didn't seem too displeased to be disturbed.

The watchmaker wished his heart didn't leap at being vindicated at the expense of his only friend's misfortune. He remained poised on the top step, shoulders hunched, until Peter shuffled over to make room beside him. The stairs bit coldly into Sylar's socks on the way down, causing him to regret his lack of outerwear, but when he sat next to the other man he suddenly became much too pre-occupied to focus on cold toes.

The wind toyed with the pair's faces, and the streets in the distance began to fill with traffic like a steady stream of water drops while the neighbours screamed blue murder over dishsoap. The world was massive and thriving, packed to the brim with more life than Sylar could ever imagine in his wildest dreams... yet Peter Petrelli was the only thing holding his attention, the way it used to be.

Peter spoke pointedly to the skyline, voice flat and drained of the passion that had echoed in Sylar's mind since their last exchange. “I've been thinking about what you said, and you were right about all of it.” He released a hollow chuckle and rubbed his forehead, probably in attempts to dull the same throbbing pain that was currently attacking Sylar's cranium. “What I asked for? It _is_ about me...” He was frowning. It was audible in his voice. “It's just, ever since we broke outta that dream... nothing's been the same.” He trickled off into no more than wistful exhales and tapping fingers against his knee.

Even sitting so close to a contrite Peter who's boots were almost touching Sylar's socks, the former killer was still angry with him. His body was buzzing where it was closest to the empath, a growing prickle that ran down his entire left side, but the rage was slowly dissipating into something else that Sylar couldn't put his finger on.

For fear of de-railing the other man's train of thought, he said nothing. He only sighed, reached for Peter's forgotten mug and pried it out of his hand, stealing a sip of old coffee. It was disgusting, and didn't subdue his appetite at all, but disgusting was better than having nothing to busy himself with.

Peter's knee pressed against Sylar's, just for a second. “How did you do it?” He asked quietly. “Adjust back to the real world so easily?”

Thinking, Sylar forced his mouthful of “coffee” down and took a second to make his voice start working. He'd had a speech prepared for weeks now, masterfully crafted and practiced to perfection for the moment this well-overdue conversation found its way into the limelight. But now that it had, everything Sylar had planned to say to his friend felt ridiculously inadequate.

He regretted his last intake of the cold beverage, but took another sip even though the liquid was now ickily coating the base of the cavern of his stomach. “...I'm not sure.”

*

Peter shifted a little on the hard step, more grateful than he'd thought he'd be at the proximity of his roommate. They weren't touching, and still weren't looking at each other, but just knowing he wasn't alone drew some of the chill out of the air. The conversation, however?

To Peter, it seemed obvious that reality was merciless in making one man feel insignificant, especially after being the living, breathing centre of the world for so long. Yet Sylar didn't have an issue with walking to get food in the evenings, passing through a crowd of pedestrians or howling traffic to take a shortcut. Not the way Peter did. To him, the world had shifted on its axis, it was a totally different playground than the one he'd left behind: the colours were wrong and the edges were too sharp, and he couldn't remember if it had always been that way or if it was all in his mind. And if it was? What did that say about him...?

“Maybe it's because the world I knew was always an isolated one.” Sylar's continued admission probably wasn't supposed to dig as deep as it did.

Peter bit his lip, nodding at his knees. He couldn't shake the bizarre image of Sylar slipping through a minefield with the effortless grace and intuition with which he did everything, knowing exactly which path to take to avoid the disasters he couldn't be bothered with... meanwhile Peter blundered his way into every possible wrong step along the way.

Sylar was most likely right in his assessment. All the man had had in life was a stick and handkerchief of belongings, carrying them over his shoulder wherever he went – including to a dream city and back. But Peter's baggage was too widespread for any shoulder to carry, too invested in the world and people around him. He held so tightly to his loved ones that when Matt had dropped a five year barricade between them and him, his arms had broken beneath it and they'd never healed properly. Neither had the rest of him.

Maybe Peter wasn't made to heal, ability or not? Maybe it was his fate to keep breaking into smaller pieces until he was nothing but a human mosaic pretending he was whole? There was no human superglue he could get his hands on, or a “welcome back!” manual to help him try to fit into the mould that he no longer could, not even a magic switch in his brain that would solve all his problems, as Sylar had so nicely pointed out. If only this would stop him longing after a way to elevate the pain somehow.

Even though the space between the two men was still tainted by their dispute, it was remarkable the way Sylar seemed to know just what Peter was thinking without the violating means of assault he had endured too much of recently. When the coffee mug was offered back to him, Peter accepted the gesture behind it even though the drink itself wasn't worth it.

*

Sylar regretted handing over his only means of distraction the moment the smaller man ended the drought between them. Peter turned and devoured him with those honest, hazel eyes of his for the first time since the highway, and it felt like both years and seconds since the last time. He appeared beaten, more than from pulling an all-nighter, still the infuriating cause of Sylar's anger but annoyingly, gratefully familiar at the same time.

Sylar met those dark-circled eyes directly. He witnessed his companion's lips soften and eyebrows rise into a non-threatening arch that eliminated any possibility of rekindling the fight where they'd left off. He wasn't entirely sure how to feel about that.

“Back in the car, when I asked you to help me?” Peter sighed, at himself. “I didn't think how it would affect you, and I'm sorry. If I had, I would've... I never meant to -”

“I know.” Sylar snapped too quickly.

*

The rest of Peter's heartfelt declaration died in his throat, then. He span the mug anxiously in his fingers but didn't try to untangle himself from the knot of the watchmaker's consuming, unashamed stare.

He was pretty sure that the guy didn't want to hear his apology for a different, more guilt-inducing reason than before they'd fought. It felt no less awful to have his attempts at reconciliation back-kicked now than it had then, but at least Peter understood this time.

How bizarre to think that so much had happened since he'd last experienced this feeling. He remembered being curled up in the car while he and Sylar drove in silence, feeling like shit and having no idea that he was going to feel ten times worse after opening his stupid mouth. It was for this reason that he tried his best to learn from his mistakes for once, and kept quiet.

*

It was a conscious choice not to elaborate or let Peter spew more apologies. Sylar didn't need more nausea added to the self-admission that he _was_ the infernal bastard everyone still thought of him to be. Except for Peter, of course. Naïve Peter. Well-intentioned Peter. Self-righteous Peter who had finally seen behind the curtain but wanted him closeby anyway.

The empath looked so completely sincere right then that Sylar's resentment only grew through his guilt. He didn't like that his defenses encased him again, just at the reminder of the words exchanged by the highway and the knives twisted in each other's backs. Even though Peter was gliding across eggshells with the lightest of caresses, Sylar couldn't bring himself to let his bruised feelings go.

Suddenly the tension of the other man's gaze became too much, so he assumed the abandoned role of skyline-admirer. With his throat constricting not for the first time in recent hours, Sylar watched the first blush of morning fade across the park below their perch. It was a stunning view from the penthouse, but it was also merely a backdrop for the unwanted memory that was glued to his eyeballs against his will. The sight of his friend through the car windshield last night – that split-second glimpse that Sylar had caught from afar during his descent, when it was _just_ too late for him to freak out and fly off again... it mottled his vision and Sylar couldn't shake it. It sickened him. It gutted him. It blew on the flames of his anger and kept them from settling.

Because he _was_ selfish. And self-serving, and cowardly, and Peter was right about him, too, and it fucking hurt. Peter needed his help desperatly. But Sylar wouldn't give it. Maybe he _would_ never be more than his past as long as it haunted him. But when would it ever not?

The distant siren song of early bird traffic spiked, causing the former killer to tense and try not to hear it as tinny, casino music. Just days ago, before the trip to Vegas and his close call with a duplicating man, he would have insisted that he was doing well along his journey for absolution. Before Harris and Parkman and Bennet and Peter had conspired to sweep aside the cloud of ignorance and let Sylar see himself in harsh lighting. He _wanted_ to be more than he was. To (borrowing the empath's words) be “better”. But it was too scary and too dangerous to play with such a volatile fire as temptation, and Sylar knew in his heart that he just wasn't the hero he wished he could be. The brave, selfless saviour who would risk his own progress for the innocents who could be helped by a Peter Petrelli at his full potential.

He couldn't bring himself to do... _that_. He couldn't. Not to his last tether to humanity. Sure, Peter had said he believed in him to get through the operation without relapsing, but even if he did, was Sylar supposed to feel _relieved_ about merely being confronted with his biggest regrets for real, in the neatly sliced flesh, after fighting to chase away the memories for years? Was it supposed to be a good thing to recreate such a horror, but this time with the clarity of mind to digest every gruesome detail of what he was actually doing...? Didn't it matter that he couldn't handle having another person close to him be sliced open and bleeding and dead by his own hand?! Even if his feelings towards Peter were less than favourable at present.

The thought alone made him feel ill, reliving every detail in pristine clarity as if it hadn't been close to a decade since his last kill: the satin heat of the hunger; the wet _snick_ of piercing through skin to carve bone; the swelling bloom of blood before it flowed from the incision, red and thick and silky; the control; the screams; the grand unveiling; the prize now exposed and quivering like a naked baby animal unable to fend him off –

Sylar was surprised by a lone tear sneaking down his cheek. He startled and subtly scrubbed his face with lightening speed, should the ghosts of his past catch him snivelling. Gritting his teeth as emotion flared again, he pressed a thumb to his eye in hopes of blocking the offending tearduct. Then he sucked in a crisp breath of the morning breeze, and gathered his senses like a dealer and scattered playing cards.

*

The contents of Peter's mug lost all intrigue the moment Sylar spoke.

“I want to be able to help you, Peter. I really do.” Sylar murmured, his shoulders finally lowering from up by his ears and his fingers meshing repeatedly between his knees.

Peter was dragged from his thoughts and into the present with a thrilling lurch behind his navel, meeting the other guy's dark, burdened eyes once more. A hue of resistance still lingered at the corners, but it was the sentiment filtering through that told Peter the worst of his friend's wrath had already passed.

“But even if I could... fixing your ability won't make all your problems go away, and I think you know that.” The words were soft, kindly, said with the best of intentions, however the last embers of irritation in them scraped against Peter's skin like steel wool. He cringed at the reprimanding, at getting in trouble like he was a kid again and had just climbed over the new living room suite in muddy shoes. “Not to mention it could be dangerous. Have you even considered the repercussions?”

Peter didn't want to say his reply aloud, even though they both knew the pathetic truth already. It hurt to lay himself bare again like this, but he took comfort in the fact that this man had seen him in a worse state than this many times before.

“It's all I have, Sylar.” Forcing himself not to look away, Peter worked to keep his lungs from fluttering in a race against his pounding heart. “It's the only thing I can think of.” He managed a measly attempt at a smile, but it fooled no one. “I just want _something_ about me to feel right again.” He then lost another battle, looking back over the city even though he couldn't see much more than his own frustration.

*

A fresh gust of wind ran through Sylar's t-shirt, and he wrapped his arms around himself as best he could. Rosy sunbeams reached over the city to touch upon him, but they felt hollow and void of warmth.

How was Sylar supposed to argue with Peter's desire? He understood it, too well. But there was no release from past mistakes, not even time travel could erase the scars completely. There was no escape from this life, Sylar knew personally. He had hunted for it for years, searched in the bloody crevices of other people's brains, but there was no such thing as a way out. Not an easy one, anyway. Still, that hadn't stopped him from searching, so how could he ever ask that of someone else?

Goddamn it. Suspended within swirling currents of competing emotions, Sylar couldn't break the surface or touch the ground no matter how hard he tried, and he hated being without that control. Why couldn't he just be angry without shame butting in like the unwanted relative who never got the message...? Why did being a better person have to come with such complicated ties?

Raking his fingers through his hair, Sylar finally stopped trying to fight against those currents. He surrendered to the force of the tide and let it sweep him along whichever way it so chose.

The fateful deed being asked of him was far beyond the capability of the most powerful man on the planet. But Peter wanted it terribly. And Sylar might have been the only person alive who could ever grant him his wish. That's not to say he _should_ , he wasn't obligated and sure as hell had the right to say no! Only... if it were the other way around, and Sylar was pleading for a shred of relief that Peter had to give? He knew from experience that the empath wouldn't hesitate to help him in any way possible.

His hand reached over by itself, indecisive in its direction, and surprised Sylar by foregoing the coffee mug in favour of lightly clasping the crook of Peter's knee. The touch was registered with a swish of dark hair and a rise in the tension of the smaller man's frame, but otherwise wasn't shaken away. It gave Sylar the courage to wet his dry lips.

“Peter...” The guy didn't move or lift his head, as if that would mean he wasn't as transparent as glass. Sylar swallowed again. “...Look at me.”

*

Peter couldn't, so he didn't. He was too afraid that the frail composure he had been clinging to since the car would shatter the moment he set eyes on the sympathetic expression he knew Sylar was wearing.

He couldn't predict the lecture that was headed his way, but no matter what choice words the guy bestowed upon him, they were just another consolation prize. A placeholder. A rejection swaddled in the pretense of being “what's best for you”, and Peter was expected to accept this and be grateful and not complain that it wasn't even close to what he'd wanted. Such as it had been all his life. But he couldn't be upset by it, because Sylar wasn't in the wrong, here. And Peter didn't want to make the guy feel even worse than he already had.

The taller man tightened his hold around his knee, just enough to be persistant but not so much to be fearsome. “ _Look_ at me, Peter.”

Reluctantly, Peter obliged, just praying that for _once_ his every feeling wasn't plastered over his scalding face. He burned under Sylar's attention, bracing himself to accept another, albiet softer, rejection in so short a time.

Sylar, however, as he tended to do from time to time, surprised him completely. “...I want to try something.” Peter blinked at that, confused, awaiting the rest of the rebuffal that never left the other man's lips. “Do you remember I once told you about that time...in Texas?” Peter continued to struggle at the sudden, random change in topic. Texas...?

*

Sylar cursed himself when he saw Peter's frazzled mind recall the too many bad memories that had transpired in that place. “The waitress?” He amended, aware of his pulse creeping faster.

“...Charlie.” Bingo. Peter's eyes slowly began to clear of uncertainty as he recalled that conversation from long ago, when it had been cold outside and the windows were steamed up from the only two hot drinks in the whole world, let alone the diner. “You saved her?”

Breathing deeply, Sylar made himself nod his confirmation, as tightly as hesitantly as it was. God, he just really hoped this wasn't a terrible idea, but it was all he had to safely give in order to ease the suffering of his only friend. It probably wouldn't even work, and it was a coward's alternative to the other method, and it was nothing close to suitable, professional help for Peter's issues. But if it might make the guy stop hurting...

He flinched when the fire of excitement burst beautifully to life again inside Peter. The man shifted on the step until his body was facing Sylar directly. “Wait! D'you mean-?”

“I don't know.” He said seriously, putting his foot down before Peter got too carried away all over again. “But it's worth a shot.”

The little man didn't say more although it was obvious he wanted to, and his face was shining and hopeful and eager compared to merely seconds before. Even though Sylar despised that he was being emotionally manipulated into straying this far from his original standpoint (deliberately or not), and despite the fact that he was still more angry at Peter than he had been in months, damn it if he didn't want to do anything right then to make him feel better. Goddamned _Petrellis_ always knew exactly how to play the game.

Steeling himself, shaking the dust from his once familiar, professional manner, Sylar sat up straight and channeled his focus upon the man before him. He wasn't happy with this arrangement. But compared to the alternative he almost welcomed it with open arms.

*

It was as if Peter's brain had shut down all of a sudden. He might have worried it was Sylar's doing, but the man hadn't started yet, and it had been the words (or even the spaces between the words) that had done it. And now Peter couldn't think. He could only feel.

He was aware of his heartbeat racing like that of a hummingbird; of every second rolling over him only to build the anticipation; of the sudden fear and thrill that he might finally get what he'd been yearning for; the unreachabe latch over his old self straining to burst free; the reality of this moment finally falling upon him at last; and the utmost gratitude towards Sylar for even contemplating doing this for him. He felt so much going on at once, meanwhile he couldn't do more than sit on that uncomfortable step and and question his sudden good fortune.

When he'd heard company arrive atop the fire escape, at best he'd been expecting a cold exchange, or to be told off again – in not so polite phrasing. He'd been so invested in guilt and self-doubt and trying to work out what to say to Sylar in the morning that he hadn't for a moment thought the man had tracked him down to accept his request.

Yet, here was Sylar now: disgruntled, yes, but inspecting Peter with the same, thorough concentration he used on his many precious time pieces. The empath could have hugged him again right then, right now, if he thought it wouldn't ruin the tentative progress they'd made since the fight.

Instead, Peter sneaked a hand onto the watchmaker's forearm. He would have masked the motion by taking an ability, but seeing as he already held regeneration – and that was as good a power as any to keep for this experiment – he didn't bother with an excuse.

Sylar conceded the gesture with a flick of his eyes, brief enough not to have drawn him out of his zone of concentration. Peter's insides squirmed like he was back in the stolen car swerving across the highway, and all at once he wanted to stretch or shake or warm up a little first. But all impulses fled him when Sylar's hand gently but firmly held the side of his head.

“You have to hold still.” He murmured, so quiet that Peter probably wouldn't have heard him had he not been looking. “Otherwise...” He didn't finish the sentence.

“It's okay. I trust you.”

Peter said it without thinking, but faltered as he locked eyes with Sylar and they both awkwardly recalled the end of the argument. He didn't rescind his words, and he didn't regret them either, but he did force away the stinging aftermath and fought to stay present for what was happening now. What Sylar was really about to do for him _now._

“Go for it.” He consented, holding his breath as Sylar hesitated, tore his gaze back to Peter's forehead and pulled his arm free from Peter's touch. He might have taken even so small a gesture the wrong way, had Sylar's free hand not lifted into his line of sight, poised as if he were holding an invisible, intricate tool aloft.

Then Peter watched as the watchmaker's fingers moved microscopically, carefully, every millimetre of every move thought out deliberately, and a sudden wave of goosebumps cascaded over his body. He couldn't feel a thing, but his imagination supplied the sensations of Sylar gently tracing over the map of his brain in order to find the right spot.

The hand by his face was burning hot, and his limbs were twitchy but he refused to move. He didn't want to ruin this, not when everything he had was put towards willing, _hoping,_ that what he'd been wishing for for so long could maybe, properly, _finally_ be happening...

Peter shivered again at the scrutiny with which he was being surveyed. He stared in wonder at Sylar's face as the man looked right through him, serene and composed and a true, undeniable master of his craft. Peter had always been awed to see the man at work, to witness the methodical grace that he nurtured his each and every project with – having missed out any natural creative talents himself. But as for Sylar... Gabriel Gray...? He was an artist. And Peter was his current muse.

It was a much more humbling experience than he had anticipated, vulnerable although he had shared himself down to his soul already and was willing to open his skull for this man too. But this was different. This was one-sided, a gift that Peter was taking while giving nothing in return. It was also the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him. All at once he didn't know how to manage that.

“Is it in?” He joked, trying not to fidget in his nervousness.

It was probably not a good thing to distract the man at work, but Peter couldn't help but seek some kind of reassurance that they were still two friends in this together, not only a craftsman and his hobby.

Sylar's mouth tightened stubbornly as he refused to smirk or look Peter in the eye. “It won't be for long if you keep talking.” He would have laughed if he wasn't in such a mood, Peter knew, but he let it slide with a tiny smile.

“Sorry.” He puffed out a calming breath and tried to orient himself into behaving for the remainder of the experience.

*

The distraction didn't undo too much of his progress, Sylar was grateful to note. In fact, he easily slipped back into the technical mindset of an artisan at work, happily pre-occupied by the mechanical side of the job with none of the bloody, gory, dangerous stuff to get in the way. It was a relief to find that he felt quite relaxed here, content with a fault that needed finding and a code that needed deciphering.

The city ruckus around him, the cold step below, and Peter's silky hair under his palm faded from existence as Sylar re-traced his way along the route he'd blindly uncovered so far. He worked warily, like fumbling his way through a tunnel in the dark while being afraid to bump into any walls or cause even the tiniest scratch of damage. He could tell that he was close to his destination, he could feel the tunnel beginning to slope up towards the exit, and so he slowed down his expedition for fear of stumbling into it too roughly or missing it entirely.

Peter's brain wasn't as unfamiliar as it should have been, as one Sylar had never laid eyes on. But as he stroked across the surface of the man's cerebrum, it almost welcomed him, aiding him along his journey. He couldn't help but wonder if this was (according to good, ol' Chandra Suresh's theory) because the soul theoretically existed in the brain. Which meant that Sylar _had_ been here before.

It was getting more difficult to maneuver, however. Which meant he was getting close. He encountered more resistance the further he pressed on, that slope became too steep and without sight Sylar couldn't find any hand grips to help him tackle the issue. He could picture the tunnel getting smaller, more compressed, like there was a disfigured knot up ahead and raw, inflamed scar tissue marring his path.

Sylar let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. With the tenderest of touches, he pressed as close as he could to the disaster zone.

Jesus. He'd never encountered anything like this before. So Peter had been right, anyway: there was a man-made blockade in the way of his abilities where there shouldn't be. Sylar's skin crawled just imagining how it must feel. Arthur Petrelli had really screwed his youngest son up, and suddenly Sylar felt wretched for the pain that Peter must have been carrying all this time without expressing it to anyone.

It was horrific to witness the remnants of the abuse. He couldn't imagine his own precious powers being held from him so brutally. But finding such a site was also a good thing, because the logical next step would be to find a way to untie the knot and set Peter's abilities free once again. Simple, right...? No. Of course not. Because nothing whatsoever to do with Peter Petrelli was ever going to be simple.

Sylar gnawed on his lower lip as he explored the vicinity of the knot without being able to touch it or see its size and construction. He couldn't just scrabble with the thing like a matted shoelace and hope for the best. It was precious. Extremely delicate. And could only be liberated by very precise care and a delicate touch: two luxuries that Sylar couldn't reach in his current restrictions. Still, he hadn't made it this far just to give up now...

*

Peter was keeping himself calm by breathing as slowly as possible. It got easier the more Sylar worked, and the empath drew courage from the other man's strength and confidence. He was in the best hands imaginable, after all, and he couldn't dream of being here with anyone else.

But then the watchmaker's face began to ripple with emotion: frustration that leaked through the professional mask, and aggravation that dropped a lead weight into Peter's stomach. He lost control of his breathing exercise and instead watched as his friend valiantly fought a losing battle inside his head, trying not to let dismay drag him back down.

Peter knew that look, the furrow to Sylar's brow and the glint in his eyes that meant he was over-exerting himself to chase a prize he couldn't capture. Shit. It gave him a few seconds of warning to hastily tuck his disappointment into the well-worn, hidden alcove in the back chamber of his heart, before Sylar snapped back into reality with a curse.

“Son of a _bitch!_ ” He spat, releasing Peter's face from his hold in order to swoop to his feet and storm up and down a few steps, muttering to himself.

Peter took a moment. He felt no different than before. There wasn't even a lingering trace of someone's presence in his brain, not to mention the golden rush of his abilities swarming back to him. Slowly, he stood up after Sylar, his thoughts confirmed by the man's reaction that it didn't work. It hurt. But Peter was more than used to not getting what he wanted. At least he was in a better position than before, at least Sylar had tried – and he really _had –_ and Peter was grateful for now to have at least gotten that much.

He sighed and composed his face, catching the pacing ex-murderer by the elbow. Sylar stopped abruptly, noticing Peter as if he was surprised to see him there. Peter tried to smile, to show his gratitude, but it got stuck on the way out the same way that Sylar's apology did.

*

Maybe it would have been better never to have tried? At least that way Sylar wouldn't have built them both up on false hope and had to knock it all down again. His mind and ability were ringing with defeat, and both he and Peter knew what that meant. They were back to square one again.

Sylar dreaded what was to come next. Not right now, but later, when Peter got restless again and his wounds only grew deeper. And now that Sylar had witnessed the damage up close, he only felt worse about himself than he had after the fight – now he knew what was at stake, it made it more than just words and an unseen problem, and his turning his back on it was even more cruel than it had been, before. Even more inhumane.

But still he couldn't, he just _couldn't_ bring himself to bend over backwards the way Peter had asked, and cripple himself in the process.

Of all emotions, it was fear that slipped around Sylar's ankles then, and he stared, openly, unguarded, at the latest person who's life he had ruined. Peter wanted to be fixed. He would _keep_ wanting it. And no matter how long it took, Sylar feared he would eventually cave in and do his worst if it would make his friend happy. If it would keep him close, keep him loyal, give him no more incentive to hate Sylar and leave him. He would do almost anything. Almost. At any cost. Which was the most terrifying thought of all.

He only noticed Peter was holding onto his arm when the empath's fingers tightened. He spoke softly, lying bravely with a little crooked smile, and he actually wanted Sylar to believe it. “It's okay.”

As if burned, Sylar's eyes closed and he winced.

...Suddenly he's standing on sand and the tide washes over his feet, but the water is red and sticky and flows from the hundreds of empty skulls of the hundreds of empty bodies trapping him here on this beach, where his first love lies consumed by flames, his regret tastes like salt in the air, his mother bleeds out onto him and there's a man's silhouette on the horizon. The man approaches the cursed site with quiet determination, walking himself to the gallows, but he doesn't listen to reason or desperation and Sylar can't stop him from getting closer no matter how loud he screams...

Speaking to his socks, Sylar unlatched Peter's hand with his own, holding it for a brief moment before letting it fall. “No, it's not.”

*

Peter didn't know what we was going to do or say. He just knew he didn't want this part of their story to end like this, when they both considered themselves failures and hadn't shaken off the lingering dust from the fight. Things still weren't right between them, weren't close to normal, and Peter couldn't stand to leave it this way after Sylar's selfless compromise.

But before he could make up his mind, a growing chorus of piercing whines penetrated the fog around the duo.

Blinking at his forgotten surroundings, Peter tore himself away from Sylar to discern the noise as the cry of many emergency sirens. His stomach plummeted. He leaned over the banister of the fire escape, eyes scanning the streets below for that signature red and blue flashing. Beside him, Sylar took up stance on the next step down, holding onto the railing shoulder to shoulder with Peter.

There had to be about a dozen sirens going off at once, if not more: police, ambulances _and_ fire trucks travelling in a pack to the East, towards the golden sunrise. It had to be something big.

Sure, Sylar might be feeling used and Peter feeling broken, but the latter tried not to feel guilty for greeting such a welcome distraction. The first taste of adventure floated through the air and touched him, and the adrenaline was the best temporary bandage for his wounds that he could have asked for.

Peter looked to his right at the exact same time Sylar looked to his left, and as they shared the same thought in their gaze, they didn't have to voice the words each man had been building. Just because they were feeling sorry for themselves didn't mean they could pretend they hadn't seen this. It didn't mean that innocent lives weren't in danger. They couldn't just turn away from something so obviously in need of aid, even on the worst of days.

Peter told himself they'd return to this conversation later, when maybe something might have changed... or at the very least, it meant he didn't have to think more about it now. Not when he was no longer the soul most in need of help, or when such a crucial drive as purpose was drawing him into battle.

Even though fate seemed to have held a grudge against the pair recently, this sure as hell felt like a calling now. Peter yearned to play his part, and he could see Sylar equally preparing himself for the opportunity to do what they both did best.

They might not be able to fix themselves, or each other, or shake off the corruption that the enemy had planted within their hearts last night. But they most certainly could bury the pain, get on with the job, and try their hardest to put back into the world the same hope they had just lost.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this update is quite a change from the usual pace, huh? But I thought it was time to dedicate a whole chapter to the guys and how the adventure so far has affected them ^.^ Even though it does break my heart to have them hurt so much, all these thoughts and feelings have been building for a long time throughout the story and they can only be contained for so long <3
> 
> As much as I do enjoy writing huge action sequences, I also really love being able to spend so much time on the emotional stuff too, and I hope you guys feel the same X) Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think ^.^


	19. The Weight of the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I'm posting two chapters at once today! I've got so much more to say in the author's notes at the end of next chapter, but I wanted to put in a quick note now. There are sensitive subject matters in this update regarding recent world issues, so please be aware of that. I'm dedicating this and the next chapter to everyone who has been affected by them. Not just recently, but ever<3

The office chair squeaked as it span in lazy circles. “How much longer are you going to take?”

“Almost... finished...”

“I can't believe you are going to make us late. It was your stupid idea anyway.”

The impatient huff faded into the sounds of overtime nearby: ringing phones, tapping keyboards and hushed conversations. Yes, the office chatter would be muted with the door closed, but it was comforting background noise after working as part of it for so long.

“Not stupid, Ando-kun.” Hiro Nakamura tutted. He didn't look up from working on his masterpiece until... there. Satisfied, he lifted it from the desk with a beaming grin. “Ta-da!”

Hiro ignored his friend's eye-roll, and didn't let the man's unamused expression dampen his own enthusiasm. “Kimiko will never wear that.”

“We shall see.” Hiro wriggled happily in his seat, admiring his handi-work. It was very well done, in his opinion: two little Vulcan ears strapped to an elastic band that could easily fit an expanding waistline. Adorable. “Star Trek is the most important life experience for any child.” He said matter-of-factly.

“Yeah.” Ando scoffed. “Maybe once she is actually born.” He tried to look unimpressed, but Hiro knew his best friend too well not to catch the fond dimple to his smile while he looked at the baby ears.

“No matter. She will grow up to thank me for it. You'll see...” Hiro pulled a face, one that very clearly said 'I know something you don't know'. He enjoyed dangling it in his brother-in-law's face.

The face that currently fell into its trademark look of surprise. Eyes wide, mouth open, Ando gasped. “You didn't!”

Hiro broke into another hundred watt grin, one of only an uncle-to-be. “No. I didn't. But I don't need time travel to know she will love it.” He chuckled while warmth leaked into Ando's expression, erasing the boredom from earlier. Sharing Hiro's excitement, Ando stood and made as if to leave, while the time traveller searched around in another desk drawer.

“No, Hiro!” Ando complained, flapping his arms at each side. “I thought you were done!”

“Ah! Not without the finishing touch...”

Hiro felt Ando roll his eyes again, without even having to look. “Well I am not planning on getting into trouble. Again.” He crossed Hiro's luxurious office to the doorway, patting a hand on the frame while he hesitated, smiling fondly. “Don't be too long or we'll start watching without you.”

“I have all the time in the world, my friend.” Hiro called out. When Ando loped away down the hallway, muttering, The Master of Time and Space busied himself once more in his project, tongue between his teeth in effort.

It turned out it was much more difficult to hand craft a Vulcan hairstyle out of office supplies and stick it to the elastic band than Hiro had anticipated. But he was driven by visions of sharing his most favourite TV show with his unborn niece, and that made the sticky fingers and cuts from the scissors worth it. He could see it so clearly already: Ando would fall asleep half an episode in, Kimiko would stare daggers at Hiro while pretending not to be into the story, and Hiro and her belly would stay up together quoting the crew of the Enterprise all night long...!

Tokyo bustled outside the large window, but this craftsman was too intent on his work to notice. He was only drawn out of his bubble when he heard Ando returning to drag him home – and what perfect timing too!

“Yatta!” He cried, raising the completed (if slightly askew) vulcan costume above his head on proud display.

“Very impressive.”

...Huh? All euphoria at his success dispersed like a cloud of fog. That wasn't Ando's voice.

Hiro blinked stupidly at the guest in his office for too long, before his smile fell, he dropped his arts and crafts from his fingers and shuffled quickly to his feet. Even with a large desk between him and his visitor, Hiro couldn't help but feel utterly on edge.

“Mrs Petrelli.” He said in English. It wasn't a welcome.

The woman at the door smiled at him. Or at least her rosy lips curved, but those eyes of hers didn't let in an ounce of warmth. “Hello, Hiro.” She looked around the office with the air of someone returning to an old haven. Hiro didn't like it one bit. Then she locked her gaze onto her target, and began to prowl elegantly towards him. “ _You've_ been avoiding my calls.” She scolded, looking far more at home here than she should.

Hiro took an anxious step back. For a rare moment in his life, he completely forgot about Star Trek, now that the real world and its problems were closing in on him. “How – how did you get in here?” He squawked indignantly.

Yes, Angela Petrelli was a significant stockholder of Hiro's father's company, but he had specifically requested to be made aware if she happened to visit.

“Oh, you should know by now.” She came to a stop at the other side of Hiro's desk, much too close for his liking. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the photograph of Hiro's late father. From here he could almost see the beautiful young woman who Kaito had once known, but hidden deep under years of lies and cruelty. He would have snatched the picture away if he wasn't so intimidated by this evo who's power of manipulation was stronger even than Hiro's was over time. “When I want something...”

“No!” Hiro exclaimed. He puffed out his chest and righted his glasses. He knew exactly what she wanted, why she'd been trying so hard to corner him already. “They are saving the world! I will not help you catch them!”

It was almost imperceptible. The small thing that changed on Angela's face right then. For the briefest of moments, Hiro wondered if it had been... sorrow? She almost looked like a worried mother. But even if she was – Hiro's duty to her son, and to Sylar, to everyone that their shared deeds had saved – came before that. While, yes, he knew only too well her concerns, the fate of the world balanced on the fight for a better future. And hope had to be the main contributor in that!

Then Angela smiled again, the sweetest of smiles to probably ever enter this entire building. “A strong sense of honour. Your father would be proud.” She fussed with the fur collar of her sleeves, preening herself as if subconsciously while numerable, burly figures filed into the room behind her, headed by no other than the power-stopping Haitan.

It was then that Hiro realised what was happening. And that he couldn't do anything to prevent it. He glanced sadly down upon the baby Vulcan ears that he would never get to present, and longed after the marathon of Star Trek episodes he wouldn't be introducing his neice to tonight. Then, with a polite bow to his abductors, Hiro broke out the Vulcan salute and his angriest frown.

He spat, in the most seething tone of voice he could muster. “Live long and prosper.”

*

Ando sighed, marching along the corridor with his fiance's cross words still stinging after him. “Hiro...” He scolded, approaching the door to the office. “You are in trouble. Which means _I_ am in trouble too. I _told_ you to hurry u-” Huh?

He broke off upon reaching an empty office. Everything was the same as it had been half an hour ago, except there was no Hiro bent over the desk giggling frantically about pointy ears.

While the pointy ears, themselves, lay forgotton and trampled at Ando's feet.

***

The destruction was evident from high above amongst the clouds. Vivid enough to make the two flying men falter in the air. They hovered, unseen by the fleeing, frantic crowd below, and the emergency services who hurried to craft a perimeter a safe distance from the affected street. If it could even be called one anymore.

Peter stared, suddenly numb to the wind tugging at his hair and clothes and swirling all around him. At first it was difficult to make sense of what he was seeing: a black, jagged line splitting the length of the road, like a lightning bolt had been painted onto the surface. It was still growing even as Peter watched, stretching away between the buildings until it became almost as wide as the street itself, eating up cars and lampposts along the way with no remorse...

He couldn't even form an expletive in his mind. He just looked to see Sylar beside him, wearing the exact same expression that he was sure was on his own face. The pair didn't exchange a word, a circumstance too familiar in recent hours, but Peter didn't think for a moment it was due to what just had and hadn't transpired on the rooftop. All of that seemed so far away now. So selfish in comparison to this.

It would be foolish to get involved in such chaos. But of course Peter was going to do it anyway. Even though dread was filling him to the brim, and even though memories of more than one lost future were chilling him to the bone. He could still recall a prediction splashed across back alleys with too much clarity, could smell the paint being used by a familiar stranger while a young boy ate waffles in the next room... The entire planet: broken in half by too much power...

But no. It wasn't the same. It was _not_ the same – the world wasn't ending quite yet! Although that didn't mean it wasn't severely damaged. Was this what would have happened back in Central Park if Samuel Sullivan hadn't been stopped in time...? If they'd been too late, like they were just now? Holy shit.

Bracing himself, trying to shake away the painful tingles in his limbs, Peter gestured for Sylar to follow and soared downward, over the police perimiter and toward the heart of the damage while hoping he wouldn't pass out.

*

They dropped down the height of surrounding skyscrapers, chasing their reflections in hundreds of windows of the city. They flew in silence, in rising dread, as the wind lessened and the bubbling roar of the audience grew further behind. They followed the remnants of the road, their shadows consumed by blackness before the men themselves slipped into the gaping crevice that was splintering the Earth's crust.

Sylar couldn't feel his legs as he landed with care upon loose dirt. It was dark in here, cold outside the touch of the morning sun, damp and clammy and rancid. Tremors rang underfoot and through Sylar's legs, while the ground groaned all around like thunder.

Dropping down beside him, Peter gasped. “Oh god...” He started to heave, as if he couldn't draw breath, and Sylar couldn't blame him in the slightest.

Even after the ungodly horrors these eyes had witnessed before, Sylar struggled to accept where he found himself now: well below street level, tiny in a stretching chasm of dust and blood and split pipes that jutted out of the dirt like broken bones. Immense chunks of rubble and debris were piled up all around as if a building had collapsed, and more earth rained down from above as the crevice yawned ever wider. Sylar blinked rapidly, doing nothing but gaping and standing in one place like an idiot. Cars were upturned and smoking, littered the length of the crevice in varying degrees of ruin; a severed head of a traffic signal fizzled sparks over the walls and dirty faces; the faces of small groups of people who had already gathered to help each other with their predicament, all either crying and swearing, limping or resting or unconscious or worse.

It couldn't even process. The usually so intelligent channels of Sylar's neural network appeared to be blocked, because his knack of filtering out all but crucial information in order to make sense of things was gone. Traded in favour of white noise and a throbbing pressure behind his forehead. However, he couldn't ignore one blatantly obvious fact about this incident: it had been done deliberatey.

It was too precise, in a way that a natural disaster could never be. It wasn't clumsy or random like an earthquake or gas explosion or sinkhole. Instead, it was more like someone had cracked the ground open with a giant whip, or was tearing it apart by their fingertips... Which of course was ridiculous. Ridiculous, but not impossible in this extraordinary world of extraordinary people.

Sylar shivered. Then shivered again when Peter's hand sought out and squeezed his forearm. It was trembling from more than aftershocks, and Sylar knew why. They hadn't seen anything remotely like this since –

“Samuel?” Peter croaked. His face was pale, his expression honest, and even though he'd been closeby the whole time, he sure was a sight for sore eyes. Sylar barely noticed that his anger had moved to the backburner. He barely remembered their fight right now.

He cocked one eyebrow in thought, a sense of foreboding filling him up inside. “Could be...”

*

What would be worse? If this was or _wasn't_ the work of the crazed terrikinetic man who they were supposed to have stopped back in December?! Samuel Sullivan was supposed to be in custody, Noah Bennet had even said Renautas had taken him in! But what if he'd gotten free and was terrorizing innocent people again? ...What if he'd been _set_ free?

Right now the details didn't matter, though. Not when the damage had already been done, regardless of who or what or why.

People were screaming around Peter, trying to help themselves and find each other, desperate to escape this pit that had no easy way out. Horrified, he staggered a few steps deeper into the shadows, cupping both hands over his lower face. Everything was already well in motion. Which meant that while Peter had been moping like a kid on the fire escape, he _could_ have been doing something to _stop_ this if only he hadn't been so wrapped up in himself! And now it was too late to fix it!

Or maybe...?

*

Sylar nodded mutely when Peter turned back to him, before the empath could say a word or even lower his hands from his face. He knew what the guy was looking for when he scrambled for his pocket, and who he was calling before he even found his phone.

There was still time to make a difference here. Time _,_ itself, being a given luxury upon request from a certain friend. And so Sylar waited, wrapping his jacket tighter around himself and grateful for the time he'd taken to speed-change out of his sleepwear. He itched to aid the wounded civilians nearby, and fought not to feel wretched for averting his eyes instead. They'd be okay. They would. In a soon-to-be-overwritten minute.

“Damn it!” Peter hissed, crossing back to Sylar with a fist in his hair and his lip in his teeth. “No answer.”

Sylar's stomach plummeted. Shit. He stood up straighter as the cushy comfort of re-writing time was snatched from him. The pressure inside his skull was still pounding, a rhythm that slowly increased and reverberated deeper with every new beat. Maybe it was just as well his emotions had overexerted themselves earlier and were currently being replaced by cotton wool, otherwise Sylar suspected he might not have taken the news as well as he did.

“It's okay.” He said quietly, craning his neck to look up and down the seemingly endless, quivering trench on either side of him, mind reeling, heart hammering. Of course it _wasn't_ okay, but it happened occasionally – that Hiro had a life outside their constant demands for his time. Just, so far, the time-traveller hadn't taken a bathroom break when the circumstances had been quite so dire...

Sylar cursed this incident for transpiring so soon after “visiting” Renautas. It was like it had been perfectly planned to coincide with the moment he really needed time to work out his issues before even considering being dumped with such responsibility!

And then he cursed himself for thinking something so glaringly insensitive. Sylar was _not_ the victim in this scenario. There were more than enough of them already.

*

Peter's phone was heavy in shaking fingers: a lifeline one day, a barricade the next, always a crucial component of the job. So there would be no Hiro today. No time travel. No do-over. No way to erase the pain and suffering that was presently dripping into soil on all sides.

The shakes underground were subsiding now, fading as the crevice ripped open further away from here. It left behind a smoking trail of disaster, the aftermath for the survivors who were supposed to consider themselves “lucky”. It was just like the oil rig all over again. Peter couldn't blink away the clarity of his surroundings, but even though it made his throat hurt and his eyes burn, he didn't want to forget where he was. Instead he channeled it into making him strong enough to keep going here, being able to make a difference, and not just collapsing into an anxious ball in the mud.

“These people...” He shook his head desperately, trying to rid himself of shock. He had to focus! “We have to help them, we have to...”

He cut off when, like a bubble around him suddenly bursting, the full reality of the _here_ and _now_ brushed up so close to his skin it left goosebumps. Dozens of panicked voices mingled together into a solid blast of noise, but somehow Peter managed to hear the uniqe tones of terror in every last one.

Stuffing his neglected phone back into his pocket, he tripped over his own feet hurrying to the closest site of destruction. A city bus lay on its side nearby, battered and crumpled from the fall, with shattered windows that caught flashes from the ruined traffic light and glinted eerily through dirt. The ground was still unsteady beneath his boots but Peter kept going, hearing Sylar follow determinedly at his heels as he fought his way over rubble and debris.

“Hello?!” He shouted, thankfully without cracking. The dirt walls of this enclosure seemed to absorb his voice, giving it a muffled quality that fell infuriatingly flat.

Upon reaching the paneless back window of the bus and climbing inside, Peter rushed over to a young couple helping each other limp to an exit. They reached for him with outstretched, bloody fingers, sucessfully twisting his gut so hard it crumpled into ashes.

“It's alright!” He gasped. “It's okay... We're gonna get you outta here...”

*

Sylar followed his friend across crunching, broken glass and along the interior side wall of the bus. His balance was taking a while to orient itself at the percieved rotation of gravity, and he couldn't even remember how to find his voice right then; meanwhile Peter charged on ahead with the stubborn recklessness, the compassion, that allowed him to employ tunnel vision for the sake of someone else's wellfare.

Splatters of blood streaked the seats and walls, staining the site with abstract markings that told of many tragedies. Sylar grit his teeth and refused to look at the evidence that rang of many a familiar, gory encounter. He didn't want to see. It wasn't like he could escape the smells, though. Blood. Vomit. Mixed with hot metal and something that stank sickeningly of burning flesh...

He shuddered. Normally the “people part” of missions were Peter's forte. As for Sylar, it was too compressing to be right here on the front line, up close and personal with the victims of the crimes he was trying to prevent. It reminded him too much of the old days. It ghosted too close to every soul he had wronged. No, it was much more straightforward to fight for innocent lives from afar when he didn't have to actually come into contact with them.

Peter reached the wounded couple up ahead. Meanwhile, Sylar hated that he had frozen up, and hated that he was selfish and fractured, just standing disjointed from the scene like Peter's fucking golf caddy or something! He should be _doing_ something of worth while the little hero worked his heart out saving lives.

The hero. Becuase Peter absolutely was one. Abilities or not, selfish, dangerous desires or not, when push came to shove: the youngest Petrelli could put it all on pause for the need of other people. Sylar could just imagine how much good he could do with all of his power restored...

Somehow he managed to muster up a croak as he reached the couple. “What happened here?”

Nobody answered him. So Sylar just watched the empath set to work trying to ease the pain in any way possible, without even a trace of the insecurities that had wracked him back at the apartment. If Sylar hadn't personally been there, he'd never have been able to tell how unsteady in himself this knight in shining armour had been just minutes ago. He wasn't sure if that should be comforting or worrying.

Peter looped his arm around the young woman nursing an impaired leg, preparing to lead her and her partner to safety. He did it all in that trustworthy, intense way he always did, the way that couldn't help but reassure the injured patient (no matter how hard said patient tried to resist, Sylar knew from experience). “Easy, easy, lean on me... okay? We're just gonna take it slow, it's alright...”

Peter was visibly tired from the sleepless night, worn from yesterday's escapades. Yet somehow despite this, and the tiny size of him in the face of such calamity, he looked strong. Brave. Inspiring. He looked like the kind of hero Sylar so badly wanted to be.

So, following by example, the former murderer took up stance on the other side of their charges. “Can you tell us what happened?” He repeated, forcing his voice and courage to support him, even if his knees happened to be deviating from that plan.

It felt wrong to insert himself into this role that he had no business adopting – the good Samaritan who held the hand and carried the weight of a perfect stranger, as if it wasn't awkward and embarrassing and totally hypocritical to do so. Trying not to think of the blood and gore compressing in on him, Sylar aided the hobbling couple's escape with a subtle push of telekenesis.

*

The wounded man seemed too distraught to make much sense of anything other than panic and tears for his beloved, tears which scalded Peter even from the other side of another patient. The woman, however, coughed out a whimper.

“A – a man. An evo. He... he ripped the ground apart with his mind...” A weight dropped into the pit of Peter's stomach as his imagination went wild supplying the visuals. “I don't know why – he was angry but I – that's all. It happened so fast... I'm s-sorry...” She succumbed to a well deserved, high-pitched sobbing fit.

“That's okay, you did great! You did great.” Peter enthused, gently tightening the arm that was around her back. He sent a positive smile the woman's way before flicking his hair out his face to peer past his charges to Sylar. And here, he couldn't have faked a calm expression if he'd tried. None would be able to mask the fear, regret, rage and uncertainty crashing together and crackling like lightening in his eyes.

He had no clue how he was supposed to sort this. But at the same time, his frazzled nerves began knitting themselves back together for the first time since leaving Renautas, now that there was a course of action and the fresh reminder of what was at stake. Of what was to be fought for.

*

Sylar couldn't forget how broken Peter had been on that fire escape less than twenty minutes ago. Or how badly Arthur's lingering footprint in his mind continued to echo. It was a fact that the guy was in no state to face off against whoever was powerful and deranged enough to cause such damage as this, even if time was precious. Nurse Petrelli would be in his natural habitat if he stayed here helping civilians, and that was what should happen. It was what he did best, wasn't it?

But Sylar didn't say anything. Because he knew what had to happen next and Peter had to be the one to make the decision. The empath knew it too, it was written on every plane of his face: the grudging, sensitive worry that he wouldn't be strong enough; the reluctance to run away from this site and leave the innocents to their fate; but most importantly, most vividly... the unwavering urge to take down a bad guy.

Peter was not sittting this one out. And even if there had been time to waste on even _more_ arguing today, Sylar wasn't sure he would have done so. Sitting him in the corner to keep him out of trouble would only be the worst thing Sylar could do to Peter right now.

So instead he just nodded.

***

It was terrible. It was gut-wrenching. Soul-destroying.

It was the literal relization of nightmares that had haunted Peter for years, even before he had acquired the ability to dream the future. But there was no way to stop and help every person he passed if he hoped to catch the son of a bitch responsible for their ailments.

He tried to keep his eyes ahead as he ran, chasing the prow of the invisible ship that parted the earth before him. He made himself focus on his breathing and the burn in his muscles, the way they pushed and pulled to propel him forward so fast he could barely feel the mud shift below his boots. The air tasted like dirt and stale water that splashed from the puddles he crossed, but repulsion was nowhere near enough to distract Peter from catching every scared and tear-streaked face peppered along his path.

It got darker the further into the crevice the evos ran, the deeper it groaned and dug into the ground, until the sky was but a sliver of clearest blue overhead. It was murky enough below sea level to barely see more than a few metres ahead, and Peter and Sylar were tested over and over by fallen cars, streetlights or chunks of road materializing out of the din with only _just_ enough time to avoid them. They didn't dare fly into the indiscernible wall of the unknown. Instead they just ran, side by side, Peter fighting ever so slightly more to keep up with his ally's longer strides.

He tried not to remember, but it was impossible to forget. This, today...? It was just as his future self had once predicted of a time when powers didn't need to be kept hidden. Only even more terrifying than he ever would have imagined. Compared to this disaster, Samuel's Central Park stunt seemed harmless, and even Sylar's hunting and vivisection of specials was almost trivial when put side by side.

For one person to hold enough power that such an outburst could be fatal to so many...? It was obscene. Not the power itself, but the will and capability to abuse it in such a way. It was unlike anything Peter had encountered before. Even when he had unwittingly exploded in the sky, he had been trying to spare every life in the city. It had never even occurred to him what might have happened had he blown up with the intent to destroy. What if things had gone differently back then...?

But this was now. And still Peter wanted to help people more than anything. If only Sylar had agreed to fix his ability properly... if only the attempt back at the apartment had been successful... he could have done so much more here...

But he _was_ helping them! He was!By tackling the tree at the root he could make more of an impact than chasing after individual leaves, right? Although he could never look the other way when said leaves kept finding themselves directly in his way. Even if they might be slowing him down.

Not for the first time, Peter almost stopped dead in his tracks. He called forth his newly-borrowed telekinesis to rip a door clean off a mangled taxi cab nearby, setting free the inhabitants who had been trapped inside. It was just a small act, a few seconds on his part, but it made all the difference to those people. And to Peter.

Panting, he caught up to Sylar with more power in his step than before.

*

It was better to be moving. To be actively doing something that was going to determine the fate of this day for everyone.

Sylar let this mentality trickle over him and keep him steady, as the spiral of tension wound tighter and tighter in his gut the closer he got to his destination. The walls were narrower here, the tremors stronger, the destruction fresher. Sylar could practically smell his prey already.

Of course he didn't want to ignore the cries and pleas for help that breezed past him so quickly they hit like harmless strips of paper brushing his face. But he knew, rationally, that he would be of more use to them later by _not_ aiding them now. By instead channeling his energy, all his power, onto one particular target...

It wasn't the thought of revenge that was driving him, Sylar told himself.

Even if this morning's perpetrator would indeed turn out to be the guylined, soul-patch-wearing carnival leader from his past, stopping him was a service to the entire city! It was justice. And had nothing to do with the fact that Samuel had lied to Sylar, taken him in, pretended to understand him and promised him a home, a family, so long as the good little pet lived his life on a leash and attacked on command like some sort of fucking guard dog –

Another ground-shaking rumble from the shadows ahead, the loudest one yet, cut Sylar's bitching short. He promptly forgot about his old grudges and grievances and was smacked in the face by the stark reminder of where he was right now. Literally.

Blinking flecks of fresh, fallen dirt from his eyes, he cleared the last foggy tendrils of dust to see... Oh shit.

*

Somehow Peter's lead-like legs managed to break free of their rhythm and stumble to a stop. Mud sprayed from his boots as he slowed, just in time to avoid toppling straight into a new barricade of earth and rubble that was still settling across his path.

Clutching a gnawing stitch in his side, he fought to even his breaths as he took the time to make sense of what was going on here.

The blockade was _moving_. Still falling, unsteady in its position as it stretched only wider the more Peter watched. It was like the earth was alive in its own right, shifting around his ankles like waves as the tide came in. But over the crumbling mound, just visible on the far side, was a sight so surreal it could have been lifted from the page of one of Peter's old comic books. What the...?

*

It was a show-down. Already well into its third act.

The perpetrator stood high above them on the surface of the rupture with which he had decimated the entire street; a group of armed police on the other side; mere crisp silhouettes against the morning sky. The cops had a clear shot of their shameless target, but yet all refused to take it for the sake of one of their own. A hostage. A prisoner, suspended atop a precarious column of dirt that towered in the centre of the crevice like some sort of gross beanstalk from a fairytale.

Holy shit.

Sylar could do nothing but stare as the fresh mound of debris before him crumbled away further, revealing more of the scene like a curtain being drawn in reverse. His intelligent eyes mapped out and logged the scope of the exchange, while the acoustics in this void made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

The assailant was screaming, his voice amplified eerily as if he were standing at the other end of an empty stadium. Sylar could hear every breath, every growl, every _pang_ of a vocal chord as it struck a note off-key. It was almost spectral. But it was the words, themselves, that hit him hardest.

“...Don't you _dare_ use that word on me! _SHE_ was innocent! Was _she_ spared?! Was it fair for _her_?!”

The group of police swarmed and twitched on the edge of the bank, anxiously treading ground as close as they could get to their detained ally. “We can help you! But you have to work with us -”

One nerve in particular panged inside Sylar, as the man continued to roar with everything he had. “ _Help?!_ I don't want your help! I want my daughter to wake up! I want justice for what _you_ let happen to her just because she's different!”

The more the terrakinetic man bellowed, the louder he got, the more silence crept in over Sylar like a protective blanket. How many people had he just witnessed as hurt or worse at the hands of this guy? He knew perfectly well what had happened here. ...But did it make Sylar a bad person... was he still evil... because he could empathise with the man who had caused so much harm today? Because, despite everything, he couldn't bring himself to fully point the finger in one direction?

*

“What have you ever done for people like us?! You sell us lies that everything's alright! You ignore us and pretend nothing's happening – but _I've_ seen it! I have to _live_ with it! Don't tell me I'm “confused”!”

Peter felt sick to his stomach from everything but secondhand vertigo for the hostage – heights had never bothered him, after all. All thoughts of a fight fled from his bones, and apparently he wouldn't be facing off again with Samuel Sullivan because that wasn't him up there. It should have been a relief. Yet Peter couldn't believe that he found himself wishing for the deranged carnie in exchange for... _this._

All of a sudden he felt willowy, transparent and losing mass while his head only got heavier. He couldn't move from this spot.

That distraught father had just condemned countless lives. He wept for his daughter's injustice with every right, but then how many other sons and daughters had he affected over the course of his own rampage? It was so fucked up. So, so wrong. Yet... it terrified Peter that, in a way, this man was campaigning for the same thing he and Sylar were: for evos to be able to live their lives without prejudice.

But look what that had entailed, today. How much blood had been spilled just to make his point? This man, this street, all these casualties in the name of “justice”... How quickly had things gone wrong? How easily had he gotten so swept up in a belief and ended up hurting dozens of people to get it across?

The sound of the terrakinetic's first sob echoed around the expanse of the crevice. “She's _fifteen_...”

Fifteen. The age Claire had been when _she'd_ first been targeted for her ability.

“...She never hurt anyone... She wants to be a scientist...use her talent to make the world better.”

Peter could picture the girl clearly. He didn't need to know her face or name or height or race to know how he felt about her. She'd been attacked for no good reason, she was hurt, she was far too young to have to experience anything like this. The lead weight in his gut only grew larger as he just stood here, intruding, doing nothing at all of use to anyone as the crevice continued to shift around him like melting ice.

“And what do you think she'd feel about what you're doing today?” A calming, yet taut voice emitted from the gaggle of cops. “Does this look like the world your little girl would want? You would cause so much chaos in her name?”

It was then that Peter reassumed control of his numb limbs. He tried to swallow in order to clear his throat, and clenched his fists repeatedly to summon resolve. None of it worked, but that didn't stop him.

Even if his confidence in his abilities hadn't recently been shaken to within an inch of its life, he would be more than inadequate to deal with an enemy with such power and disregard for casualties. He likely didn't stand a chance. But that sure as hell didn't mean he wasn't going to try –

“Don't!”

*

With perfect reflexes, Sylar snatched after his friend as the guy made to clamber over the debris pile, tugging him back down to earth by the wrist.

“Hey! What're you –?”

“There's nothing we can do, Peter.” The statement tasted worse than this fracture in the earth smelled.

While Sylar agreed with the sulky, reluctant look that was jabbed at him in reply, what were the alternatives? Blast on into such a fragile impasse, ranting and raving about world peace and love for all; be either buried underground or shot by a dozen cops; doom the hostage; somehow overpower the target and let him go free after all he'd done here; or – even better – hold onto him until Renautas inevitably showed up with a pat on the head and all charges dropped...? Right. They didn't even have Hiro's ability to make things so much easier.

These same thoughts were pouring through Peter's mind at a slightly slower pace than Sylar's, visible behind his eyes like the running numbers of computer code. And then his whole demeanor shivered, and he was no longer the courageous hero ready to kick some villain ass. No, he was once again as lost as that huddled man on the fire escape, desperate for even one thing to cling to that would validate him.

Peter looked out again upon the stand-off unfolding without them in the distance, hiding the most telling parts of his face from view. “...Then what are we even doing here?”

Sylar just followed his companion's line of sight, for once at a loss of something smart to do or say.

*

The distant shape of the assailant released only a whisper, and the faint sound and underground aftershocks bolted right through his audience like a sizzling beam of light. It was the kill shot. The final blow that knocked everyone else out of the game.

“I would move mountains for my daughter.”

Hidden from sight, rooted to the spot, Peter and Sylar could only witness the chain of events that next transpired as if someone were skipping frames. The spire of dirt in the centre of the fissure crumbled dangerously; the ground shook wildly on all sides as the puppeteer ripped more towering chunks of earth free; and the police finally let out a series of ear-splitting shots that ricocheted around the space like fireworks...

And then everything was obscured by a swirling wall of dust that blasted towards Peter like a tidal wave.

*

There was only a second to prepare before everything went dark.

Sylar couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't orient himself or feel anything beside textured air ripping past his skin like sandpaper. For a second he couldn't even remember where he was or how he'd gotten into this mess in the first place... then he couldn't _not_ recall the last time he'd been torn to shreds by weaponised earth...

He wasn't even aware of casting it – but the next thing Sylar knew, he was being spared from the storm inside an invisible forcefield of his own design, until the fog died down around him. He coughed clouds of dust from his nose and mouth while his skin itched with a telltale healing sensation. And slowly, he realised that he was huddled on the ground, also shielding Peter from harm that his mortal body would never be able to sustain.

The empath spluttered to clear his own airway while Sylar fought to focus his vision and hearing. He couldn't see much past the dust in his eyes, but other than two men gasping and spluttering... there were no other human sounds at all. What was left behind were only the increasing grumblings of tremors all around, and the swell of the sea beyond.

*

Very slowly, Peter extricated himself from Sylar's protection and stood, too shocked and ashamed to say thank you. No words seemed apt enough to fill the ringing aftermath of the event he and Sylar had done nothing whatsoever to prevent.

He didn't want to look. However, still coughing, bracing himself for the worst, he peered into the clearing mist where the stand-off had been just a moment before. Only to see an empty bank where the terrakinetic had been standing; a faint huddle of movement on the cops' side; and countless tons of fresh earth and debris still settling in the middle. Had the culprit gotten away? What about the hostage?!

Peter's worries were interrupted when another ground-shaking tremor splintered away into the distance. It growled like thunder, deeper and louder than any other so far. And even if the world hadn't literally been falling apart around him, Peter was sure his knees would have failed him anyway when the far wall of the crevice, the end of the line, began to fall to pieces right in front of him.

Dread enveloped his shoulders, even though he didn't understand why yet.

Sunlight cracked and grew through the wall like veins mapping the surface, so out of place that it didn't make sense at all. Peter rubbed grit from his eyes but it didn't magically make the building-sized slab of concrete and dirt stop toppling in on itself like the end of a wet cardboard box. And it didn't stop or reverse the dark waterstains that crept over and through the thing, flowing down the full height of it in rivers that pooled in the dirt below.

It was when the frothy crest of the sea splashed into sight that Peter's body allowed him to move again. It felt like he shrank to an inch tall within a second, complete with motion sickness and every sound growing louder and deeper as the world literally came crashing in upon him.

Shit! Shocked into life, he swiped at his dirt-smeared hair and sought out his friend with grabbing fingers. But it turned out even a fistfull of Sylar's jacket didn't remedy the sensation of his heart beating frantically in his mouth. Peter could barely even squeeze two syllables past the thing.

“S-Sylar...”

*

No fucking way was fate this cruel.

Sylar watched in slow motion as tradgedy ravaged around him like a hurricane. He wanted to cower from it, but as terrible as the might of destruction was to witness... he remained untouched by it all at the centre.

Oddly, it was the orchestration of the situation that smothered him first. The ground must have opened up so far along the street that it had finally hit the water. Which meant the space before him had used to be the promenade, and that there was only one crumbling seawall before the full weight of the East River. They were far below surface level down here, trapped in a gutter half a mile long, like a bug in a bath with no way out.

Water was leaking in over the banks of the crevice.

There was no time to do anything about it.

And everyone down here was going to die.

Unless... for the first time in his life... Sylar threw off the shackles of his past and allowed himself to be more...

“Sylar!”

Peter was scarcely audible over the roar of the water. It cascaded down falling chunks of cement and mortar, picking up speed, growing louder like an angry crowd at a football game. Peter's voice from earlier, from the fight, from the harsh truths he had brought to light last night encompassed Sylar, then. But presently, that pinprick of light in the distance barely registered in the corners of his mind. Somehow, though, it drew him out of the dim, calm chambers of rational thought and thrust him back into reality.

Holy sh... The seawall was hanging by a thread, now. It would hold maybe a few seconds more, at best, before tons of water and debris flooded this channel in the ground. The first reaching fingers of the tide sloshed around Peter and Sylar's ankles and threatened to pull them over, but still both men were too aghast to move.

And then suddenly Sylar could see it all so clearly.

He didn't even have time to be terrified, or to think of a better solution than this plan that had already decided of its own accord that it was going to happen. Instead, Sylar kicked the thing into motion by balling his shaking hands into fists, and staring directly through the horror etched into his friend's face.

*

Sylar's lips moved, for sure, but Peter couldn't find his way to the sound they emitted. He fought for too long to interpret the words, because even when they _did_ process he couldn't make sense of them.

He squinted at the wild eyes and dirty face of his best friend, while Sylar's whole demeanor tried so hard to be comforting and assure Peter that he was going to make everything alright. Instead, it did the total opposite.

“What?” He gasped, lips numb, as sound came rushing back to him.

“Get as many people out as you can!”

“B-but what about you? I'm not gonna _leave_ you-!”

“Do you have a better idea?! A lot more people are gonna die if we don't do something _now_!”

...He was right. And Peter hated that.

He hated the truth and he hated the situation, and he hated that he couldn't stand here with Sylar and be strong enough to take the hit with him, but he wasn't. And there wasn't even time to argue. Tendrils of the river were already upon the duo, pulling at their ankles and rising up their calves, but Peter didn't have the courage to just up and leave his only friend. To throw him to the wolves like this when there was no chance he wouldn't get hurt and be lost to Peter, too, like everyone else.

He tried to speak, but his voice had gone into hiding. Instead he tugged helplessly on Sylar's jacket, as if that could convey the hundreds of words that were spinning around and around in his head right then. He looked pleadingly between his one remaining ally and the seawall that was bursting at the seams, but he was only wasting precious seconds and they were both aware of it.

“I'll hold it off as long as I can.” Sylar's voice cracked on the last word, a small squeak that stabbed through the rush of chaos that was already pressing in on Peter's eardrums. It was the only slip in the otherwise resilient courage of the hero Peter had always known Sylar had it in him to be.

He could see it here, right now, taking place in front of him: everything that the former murderer thought he would never have was oozing from him like light, but only Peter was aware of it.

It was the moment that Sylar truly evolved into his own. And despite the impending weight of the river, the innocent lives who were hanging in the balance here, and Peter's own terror filling him to the brim... it was a beautiful sight to behold.

*

“I'll be alright.” Sylar assured, trying not to feel guilty for lying. Or could it be called lying when both parties knew perfectly well what was going to happen? More like ignoring the most crucial part that would take place before 'alright' finally came around...

The empath was still staring up at him, _gazing,_ and it only served to hammer home the madness of his plan. He knew what he was getting himself into, but it was the only way. Yes, even though it was insane. And even though he'd never done anything remotely like this in his life. But for once, it felt like the right thing to do, and that was pretty damn important to Sylar.

“...I'll wait for you.” Peter croaked. His fingers clenched in the fabric of Sylar's jacket. His jaw set determinedly. He didn't say anything more, but it didn't matter.

If there had been more time, Sylar would have tried to ease the weight of their last fight, then. He would have tried to stop Peter's open insecurities from colouring this mission and dragging him down. All the hours they'd wasted arguing last night felt ridiculous now, when disaster was _very_ real and _very_ imminent, and when Peter was very much at risk here. As it was, Sylar tried to convey as much as he could without words, while the catastrophe continued to unfold around them.

He tucked most of his sadness behind serenity as he looked down upon his only friend. His hands twitched, itching to touch and soothe before the two men were divided again after fighting and failing to make up properly. He refrained, though, just barely.

And then the ground rumbled more than ever, the seawall groaned and finally broke inwards... and the great mass of the East River tumbled free from its constraints.

“ _Go!_ ” Sylar shouted, pushing his companion off him and back the way they'd come. His heart swooped and his hands shook violently when for a moment he could only watch, stare, disbelieve, as a tower of water came roaring straight towards him. Holy fucking hell.

*

Peter ran as best he could, but his best wasn't enough. He'd only splashed a few steps from Sylar when he just couldn't resist anymore and succumbed to the lure behind him. Then he just backed away slowly, unable not to stare at the trauma that nobody had been able to prevent.

His lungs caught like someone was throttling him, he felt weightless as if he were flying, and it had to all be a dream because there was no _way_ that was _Peter's_ friend – the chess champion, the neat freak, the king of sarcasm – standing there now. The man was but a tiny shape against the backdrop of ravenous water and earth and deadly debris, standing his ground and challenging the open ocean with only sheer force of will. He was almost unrecognisable.

Peter knew it was the right thing to do to let the strongest of he and Sylar, the most capable, take care of the biggest problem. But that didn't stop him from tearing into pieces because he couldn't help. For a moment, he wasn't in a collapsed street or laden under the impending weight of tidal wave. Instead he was back amongst trees and a night breeze, amongst stalls and bunting and whirring, flashing lights advertising the best popcorn in the world... the carnival was still a threat, innocent lives were hanging in the balance and Peter had just entrusted their survival to someone other than himself.

It was always difficult to let go of the reigns. It was always terrifying to send Sylar into the fight alone. But at the heart of the matter, a fact that had been proven time and time again... Peter trusted him to do right.

As he watched, the figure before him set his stance and raised both arms. It was painfully clear that he was everything at once: an evo, a fighter... a hero. His power was palpable already, and although dozens of lives were at his mercy, it wasn't frightening the way the terrakinetic had been before. Because this was for _good_. And _this_ was what evolved humans were capable of, too. Peter used to think Sylar was so scary because he was so powerful. _Too_ powerful. But only now did he realise he'd never known the half of what the guy was truly capable of.

It was when Sylar peeked over his shoulder that the empath had to believe, without a shadow of a doubt, that it really _was_ him up there. He wished more than anything that his friend could see himself right now.

It might have been the most humbling sight Peter had ever experienced in his life.

“Peter! GO!”

The anguished yell shook him to his senses. And with one last look at what was really about to transpire, he turned on his heel and scrambled into the darkness as fast as his legs would carry him.

*

Sylar watched him fade away. And along with Peter Petrelli went the last of his nerves, because he had to be brave right now. He had to be strong and willing and capable. And somehow, when he turned back to face his fearsome opponent head on, he _was._

It was a kindness that everything was stripped away from the intelligent man, until only concentration and the urge to succeed remained. So Sylar increased the power emanating from his hands, warmed it up steadily to create a layered, reinforced barrier before him.

It didn't feel real to just be standing here like an idiot, condemning himself to what would likely be one of his worst deaths. He was standing on tracks and waiting for the train to hit him, except _this_ train was enormous and muddy and carrying remnants of cars, a wall and an entire street inside it.

But somehow... Sylar wasn't afraid.

He grunted when the first swell of water hit, colliding with his telekinetic shield strong enough to make his feet slip backwards in the mud. And then it kept coming, piled up over itself, beat Sylar black and blue like a million fists and a million battering rams at once, but he stayed strong. The river stretched high above him, until Sylar stood inches from a rushing, swirling, vertical wall of water. There could have been a sheet of glass between him and it, a window through which he couldn't _not_ stare at the mounds of road and pipes and ruin swimming around inside the blackness.

He cried out in effort, feeling his whole body be pushed back, inch by inch, along the channel he was giving his life to spare. His every muscle burned with the exertion, his legs were shaking outside his control and he couldn't feel his arms anymore. Sweat began to glisten on his face and he didn't even draw breath, allowing his regenerating lungs to keep him strong while he thrust more power than he ever thought he possessed into the ability that was practically shimmering before his eyes.

He could feel himself in it. His heart was beating through every particle of this extension of himself. His mind was in it, all his concentration, his soul. It was him and he was it, and perhaps Sylar would have stopped to explore such a sensation if the river wasn't still barging into him with no mercy. He laboured beneath the weight of the world, too far gone to acknowledge the nearby police and the people in the windows of surrounding buildings who cheered for him to stay strong.

He yelled again, when his knees almost buckled and fresh water sloshed around his legs. He grit his teeth so hard they might break, but rivulets still seeped down the inside of his barrier. He scrunched his eyes shut although it didn't keep the tears inside. And he didn't give up even though he feared his life force was draining so fast he'd die this way, before the water even had the chance to end him.

As the world began to blot at the edges, Sylar's thoughts floated around him, whispering encouragements into his ear.

This was for Peter, the first person to ever believe in him.

It was for all the people here who had the rest of their lives left to live, and for all the ones behind him who Sylar had deprived of theirs.

It was for Matt Parkman, who thought Sylar had nothing to give in this life besides pain.

It was for Micah, who deserved so much more than he got.

It was for Nathan, for Elle, for Sylar's mother, Isaac, Eden and Claire, for everyone he'd hurt with these powers insetad of putting them to good use from the start.

It was for Sylar, also. Who channeled everything he hated about himself into becoming something better.

He had no clue how long he'd been here. Had he given Peter hours to work with or just seconds...? Either way, he couldn't hold on much longer. He was failing. Slipping out of consciousness because that part of him that existed within his power was already drowning. The water around his knees kept forcing him along the crevice, and Sylar was no longer strong enough to stop it. So when his back slammed into a sharp, concrete and solid mound of debris, and there was nowhere else to go... he could only accept his fate with a dwindling mind and arms wide open.

It tickled when his ability faded. He'd never used so much as to tire it out before. But then it was gone, and Sylar was just a man lying at the bottom of the ocean that had yet to fall upon him.

It seemed to take a while.

He drew in his first breath in forever, which he knew also would be his last... his eyelids fluttered as he watched the top of the waterfall curl over in his direction...

Then everything ended beneath freezing, crushing, muddy, salty silence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! My notes are at the end of next chapter <3


	20. Keeping Promises

“Run! _Now!_ Get outta here!”

Peter shouted over and over, until his voice was hoarse. He ran so fast he couldn't feel his legs anymore. He didn't dare slow down unless it was to help someone, because every second could be the last one and he could already _feel_ the ghost of the river pressing down upon his back, ready to claim him and everyone else at any moment.

He gathered every mud-covered civilian he encountered along the way, pushing them in any direction of escape because it was all he could do. Peter tried to regain enough use of his lungs to keep running, and he tried to shake feeling back into his body to keep going, but he only had seconds to dwell on it each time before moving onto his next charge.

Currently, he waited until he was sure his latest gaggle of survivors were climbing up a ladder of debris to safety, and then he was off again. More, more, more, there would always be more victims, because there were too many of them and not enough of him but he couldn't let that stop him, couldn't let it be to blame for not saving them all –

Peter staggered to a stop, scanning the distant street level with talons kneading his heart. It took a moment to identify the movement in his peripheral vision as fresh chunks of earth tumbling down the crevice wall up ahead. A precariously balanced car was hanging over the lip of the crevice; then with a squeal of metal on concrete it tipped over the edge, and then plummeted the full height of the fissure in the Earth's surface.

Peter hadn't even processed the screaming family inside before he threw his hand out before him, not even sure if he was strong enough. He put as much force into his current ability as possible, gasping when he felt the comforting weight of the car land in his invisible safety net. Gently, he slowed it with telekinesis, then lifted it back up the way it had fallen. Shaking with the pressure, he handled the vehicle with a precision he was surprised he could even muster in this state. But somehow, by some miracle, thanks to someone out there, he did.

Numbness encased his limbs and turned up the volume on his heartbeat, but Peter refused to lose his grip on his precious cargo. He only let go when all four tires were settled as firmly as could be on the road high above, and he couldn't reach any further. Peter buzzed on the spot, simply watching the blurry shape of the car through shadows and sunbeams, afraid to even breathe. Then, like raindrops tapping one by one, relief peppered across his skin as each door opened and every family member revealed themselves to be shaken and bruised, but alive. He exhaled as the smoke began to clear and the impact of his actions rang out in the absence of applause.

Suddenly Peter felt both exposed and invisible – just an outsider to the hugging and kissing family who he had just saved, and none of them looked down here. They didn't acknowledge him. They likely didn't even know what he'd just done. But it didn't matter at all.

Reinvigorated, he shot off again down the crevice, leaping over rubble and dodging the aftermath of destruction. He lifted people onto higher vanatge points with telekinesis, trying to be as careful as he could while rushing; he was hailed by a group of kids, and helped free their friend from under a chunk of fallen road...

Peter had no clue how long he'd been frantically searching for survivors, or how far along he'd made it. Then suddenly he realised he was alone down here in the dark.

“Hello?!” He called, his rough voice pulled taut. “ _Hello?!_ ” There was no reply, not even a faint whimpering that would alert him to someone else's location. Half of him dared to hope, while the other half knew the crevice was much too long for him to have reached everyone caught up within it.

Taking an overdue moment to catch his breath, Peter bent over double and rested his hands on his knees. He was drained in every way possible: emotionally, physically, even his ability felt weakened – like he was using the power to heal others all over again. Every time he used it it sapped strength from his bones, but he was well aware that, this time, the problem was psychological.

Damn it. He couldn't stay here. People were still counting on him. _Sylar_ was counting on him too! He'd sacrificed himself to give Peter this chance, and just because he felt like a fraud who was spinning far too many plates at once, didn't mean Peter didn't have a duty to uphold. So he sucked in deep lungfuls of air, peered into the awaiting darkness and straightened up, forcing himself to continue on.

But then... he _felt_ it happening.

The first indication of change was the prickle on the back of his neck. Then the rushing grumble behind him leaked into his awareness. He heard it coming. Then he couldn't escape it. He knew, before his joints locked and the trembling ground sprouted roots to stop him from fleeing; before his head turned to face the truth of its own accord, that it was too late.

Peter Petrelli probably would have cried out, if only he could have done anything at all.

Water. High, fast, deadly. It swirled. It destroyed. It swallowed everything with a ravenous greed that could never be satisfied. It was enraged, unstoppable, and it was crashing right towards him.

... _Sylar_...

He didn't feel much. It was a sort of insane, mindless clarity that only accompanied the type of shock you had no idea how to handle. Like blowing up in the sky, for example. But, this time, Peter didn't have regenerating blood to wake him up after the pieces came back together.

It must have been instinct that flared his ability in the last breath of a second. And then darkness was upon him.

Suddenly he was mute, deaf and blind, he couldn't move and couldn't feel and couldn't breathe but he was alive anyway; he was hit and hauled along in one direction by a force so much stronger than gravity; he was drowning, he was terrified, he was upside down, he was strapped to the front of a vehicle that broke through air fast enough to rip him apart from the inside out, but somehow it didn't. Dirt and grit and saltwater burned at his eyes but he couldn't cry, it invaded his throat and lungs but he couldn't cough it out, there was immense pressure crushing him from all around, yet when he tried to grab onto anything at all, there was nothing.

He was adrift, helpless, lost in the depths of the sea with no anchor or compass to guide him.

It was too dark to see through the water, but even if it wasn't Peter was sure his mind was spinning so much he would never be able to see straight again. It was either adrenaline or fading consciousness that turned down his pain, so that suffocating felt weightless instead of agonising, and so that every time he _crashed_ into something large and solid and sharp... it didn't hurt. It just disoriented him further as the object halted him in his tracks while the water forced him to keep going in the other direction.

Then something faint glinted at him through the neverending blackness. Something called out to him. And it was the only thing he could focus on.

The colour and warmth were so wondrously familiar that Peter couldn't believe it had been years since he'd last been near it... it felt like home... he yearned for it to touch him, to hold him close and make it okay...

 _Nathan_...

Peter's brother was closeby. Closer than he had been in a very long time. Was this what it felt like to die, for good? Peter had never done so before. He had come close many times, but the last, final end to it all was something he had never experienced...

He could almost see the handsome smile and broad hand of Nathan Petrelli reaching for him, ready to carry him through the veil and reunite them once again. He tried to lift his arm and reach stretching fingers back, but he didn't have control of his body. He should probably have wept, were he able, but the urge wasn't there because this was beautiful and natural and inevitable, and of course he was always going to be with his brother again.

Except Nathan didn't want him yet. Because the Senator would never, ever want Peter to give up. He was a fighter, he'd fought to the bitter end and the same was expected of his little brother. And suddenly Peter was aware of Nathan's encouragement wrapping around him like affectionate hands patting his sides, lifting him up, and instilling him with the will to keep going.

_...You've got to carry on for the both of us, Pete..._

Peter squirmed in the void. He zoned back in just enough to feel power ripple forth instinctively from his skin, propelling him to the surface as if he were flying. And then suddenly noise replaced the water in his ears, icy air clasped his face, and there was glorious light beyond his eyelids.

Desperately, he gasped for air but there was no more room in his body that water hadn't already stolen. He kicked and flailed with no direction, clawed his way back to the surface when the river dragged him under again, and when his chest smashed into something slippery but solid, he clung on for dear life with everything he had left.

The collision forced water from Peter's windpipe and he retched, unaware of anything more than the air creeping steadily into his senses and the tingle of telekinesis that was still purring around his form. Shaking, exhausted, he shook wet hair out his eyes and held on tighter than ever to his lifeline – what he now realised was a broken pipe jutting out of the side of the crevice.

Nathan...! He was gone. Or perhaps he'd never been there at all? Shivering bodily, Peter searched through bleary eyes, but the touch of his brother was fading now and there was nothing to see except water all around him, glinting in the innocent morning sun.

...Fuck... oh god, fuck! Peter gaped at the tide coursing past him down the length of the crevice in the street, like a river had been carved between skyscrapers. He was trembling uncontrollably, due more to fear and adrenaline than the cold that he could barely feel at all.

Surely this wasn't real? It was a nightmare, or a delayed mind trip from Matt that was just kicking in now...? Peter was so stunned that it felt like he was sitting back watching it all unfold around him, despite the force of the water pushing and tugging at him and still leaking from his senses.

He couldn't hear anything at all. Not even the mighty roar of the sea, or the thundering _crunch_ of two flooded cars colliding just metres away. Everything continued to flow downstream without him, and Peter's strangled cry never made it to his lips when he was hit again – not by more rubble, no – but by the rancid truth that dozens more people had just been lost. The ones he hadn't managed to save in time.

He wanted to scream, to shout and yell about the unfairness of it all. Only, he could barely even draw breath without an invisible knife slashing his lungs. Peter ached all over, but it was a head to toe sensation that didn't compute properly. He only acknowledged the worst of it in his shoulder and ribs after he caught sight of ribbons of red trailing in the black water around him.

Floating in the rise and swell of the tide, Peter clutched the pipe despite the pain of doing so, silently convulsing against it. Technically he didn't start crying, because no tears escaped him. Instead, his body went through the other motions because it simply didn't know what else to do. What the fuck happened now? How many people were hurt? Could he just turn his back on this? Where even was he? What would he do about his own injuries? ...And where had Sylar ended up?

It was all Peter's fault. He never should have agreed to leave his friend like he did. He should've been stronger. He should've been smarter. He should've been a hundred different things at once instead of this useless mound of fear and ambitions that only doomed everything he touched!

Peter Petrelli could easily let go of this pipe right now and save the world from himself. But he didn't want to. No, he _wanted_ to help, he _wanted_ to avenge all the wrongs in the world, he wanted to be brave and good and _capable_ for fuck's sake! He wanted to honour his beloved brother, and he wanted to wait for his lost friend to revive and come find him, because he'd promised them both that he would!

But his physical strength was failing, and telekinesis couldn't keep him afloat forever.

Through the silence, a distant cry reached Peter. He lifted his face but couldn't tell the difference between the debris ripping along the surface of the water and a person. But then he heard the cry again, reverberating like it had come from inside an empty glass bottle, and sound was dropped in full upon Peter, along with his sense of direction. Wait! A _person_?

Like a burning torch being lit, a flame erupted inside his broken ribcage, numbing the edges of the pain and casting light into the furthest shadows within. The flame warmed his bones and roused him, and this time when he strained his sight the dirt in his eyes didn't keep him from locating the figure of a huddled, skinny, teenage boy on the opposite side of the water.

“H-hey!” Peter tried to shout, but again his ribs twisted in his lungs and the sound died halfway from his lips.

The kid shouted something again, but while the words didn't make it far enough to be heard, it was more than enough sign of life. It _was_ a sign, certainly. An answer to Peter's questions and a purpose when he needed one most: what happened now...? Suddenly the answer was all he could see. It was the most obvious thing in the world.

Without thinking, Peter let go his trusty pipe and ventured forth into the frothing realm of the water, once again. His ribs protested and his organs swooped, but he kept his eyes on the prize and a firm hand on his ability, leaning on it like a rope that would pull him from one side of the chasm to the other.

He was still wracked with tremors that only intensified when determination broke into the mix of too many emotions to handle at once. But they didn't stop the bruised empath from doing what he always did and jumping into the most reckless course of action, because surely he would die if he didn't save this person who had, in turn, saved him.

***

Sylar gasped awake.

He choked, gagged, and rolled onto his front to throw up an obscene amount of dirty water. He heaved until he was sure he would turn himself inside out, then collapsed on his back in the mud, sucking in long, rattling breaths.

What the fuck...? Oh. Yes.

He relived it over again: the end. It sent goosebumps along the lengths of his dirt-encrusted arms. As his lungs worked to repair themselves, he groaned his way into a sitting position. His hair and clothes were still wet, drenched through, because apparently he had drifted to a stop half lying on a bank of soaked mud. Blinking around in horror, Sylar tried to orient himself.

...It was grotesquely beautiful: water, long since settled, seemed to stretch out for miles before him; tranquil and peaceful and innocent looking. The killer tide danced gently now as it lapped around Sylar's ankles, reflecting back a cloudless night sky and sparkling silver moonlight.

What...? He rubbed both hands over his face, feeling grit and salt on his skin. He'd been out a whole _day_? How busy were the search and rescue teams if they hadn't found him in all this time? Sylar wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Taking in his surroundings again, he really noticed for the first time that he was totally, utterly, alone. “Hello?” He called to no answer from the vacant city, warding off chills from a time long past. “ _Hello_?!” His voice raked out of his throat, spiralling away across the water and the glossy surfaces of evacuated buildings that towered over him.

It was horrible to be sitting here in the peaceful aftermath of such a crime. Sylar could only imagine what happened after he blacked out... the water alone was enough evidence by itself. The empty homes all around. The complete absense of people... Sylar's stomach twisted into a knot, and he just hoped that Peter had managed to get everyone to safety in time. Then the knot dropped to the floor –

Peter! Sylar scrambled to his feet at once, splashing and clambering his way onto the leftovers of the street. No, no, no, no, no, no, no!

How could he have been so selfish before?! He could have prevented all this if he'd just gotten over himself and helped Peter when he'd asked! All these people today didn't have to die. And now their deaths were piled atop the mountain of others that Sylar dragged along behind him in chains. Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, sons, daughters... friends?

No. Please no. It couldn't be.

Normally he would have flown, but the simple thought didn't occur to this man while he ran on foot to locate the slightest hint of red and blue lights. He raced along splintered asphalt faster than he'd ran on his way to locate the terrakinetic that morning. Because this was so much worse. _So_ much more important to him than that.

***

He got used to the lights long ago. He didn't even notice them now. The red and blue specks swimming on his corneas didn't phase him anymore, and so he just stared into the swirling, glowing discs without pain or hesitation.

Until the vehicle Peter was watching started up and trundled away to collect another patient, another survivor, or someone who hadn't been so lucky. And he was left, once again, to sit by himself in the open doors of another ambulance, clutching a foil blanket around his shoulders just for the sake of having something to do.

He didn't want the thing, and it wasn't helping him physically. But he had refused to leave the area and had been dumped with it after finally accepting that he was doing more harm than good out there. Really, he was lucky the cops and EMTs hadn't sent him on his way entirely after trying to help with every new stretcher that came and went in this small hub of activity.

...Lucky... he sure as hell didn't feel that way.

Faintly, a good few hours back, Peter had been on high alert of any of his old co-workers appearing on the job – but they hadn't been working this particular site, or if they had he hadn't noticed them. He hadn't noticed much, really, after the twelvth wave of stretchers had come and gone in succession.

As the day had crawled past, Peter's nightmares had continued to haunt him. Matt's mental torments bloomed repeatedly before his eyes. But they were nothing compared to all this happening in real time... he couldn't bear it.

Once again he had failed spectacularly. He hadn't been able to _do_ anything to stop this disaster or save everyone from harm. He was useless. Just a walking disaster... It had been reckless and selfish and unbearable, but Peter had been well aware of his state of mind before leaving Charles' penthouse and had gambled with lives anyway, just to try and make himself feel better...? That knowledge tortured him inside more than his injuries did. And so he just sat here, suffering.

A scream at his left made Peter jump, then wince at the disjointed movement of his ribs. He looked over vacantly through red, swollen eyes, and his chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with the bandage wrapped tightly around it. He watched as one of the waiting crowd of civilians ran over to a new stretcher, sobbing avidly and hugging the woman who weakly leaned up to greet her in return.

It could easily have been his hundredth tear today that trickled down Peter's face right then. Not all reunions had been so happy.

He sniffed and stared out blankly once more upon the make-shift emergency area. There were far too many injured people. Far too many distraught family members, although barely a fraction of the victims had been claimed. They were lost, still. And the souls taken by the water were not just going to walk back up to their loved ones and ease the pain of being left all alone in the entire world. All but one, that was.

The empath hadn't felt so isolated since finding himself in an empty city inside another man's head. He had lost everything and everyone all over again. Peter was shivering still, shaking, but the foil blanket wasn't working because it wasn't due to the cold. His walls were collapsing in on themselves, knocking him down brick by brick until he felt as small and as frail as a tiny paper crane left to flutter in the wind.

Out of habit, he checked his watch before hugging the foil blanket tighter around himself. The thing was waterlogged and hadn't been working for hours. His phone was ruined too. Which meant that Sylar's would be also, even if he were in the right state to answer a call.

Which he had to be. Somewhere, anywhere, even if it took a while, he would be okay. He _would_ be okay. He'd promised. And even if Peter had to sit here for days he would wait for him, just like _he'd_ promised.

*

Bodies. There were so many of them.

They were strewn out upon stretchers every which way Sylar turned; living or dead he couldn't even tell. Each one was being fussed over, each one was drying and smeared with mud, just like Sylar was, only none of them had been gifted with the ability to walk away from their wounds unharmed. Guilt threatened to bubble up, but he didn't pay it any attention for now. Not when terror and shame were tearing each other to shreds in his aching chest cavity.

Numbly, Sylar weaved his way through the maze of stretchers and emergency vehicles, shrugging off prying questions about the state of him, and gearing himself up for the worst every time he summoned the courage to look at the next victim's face.

It was suddenly so real, now that he was in the midst of it. These people were so fragile, mortal... without the power to regenerate, every word and every touch and every investment two people had shared could really be over within a blink of an eye...

It physically hurt Sylar to keep going, and for a wild moment he honestly considered turning back. Maybe it would be better, be less destroying, if he never found out? Surely that (even cowardice, even being alone again) wouldn't be as bad as seeing it for real?

His limbs burned as if fire were gnawing on them, yet his gut was ice cold in contrast. Every step he shuffled deeper into the depths of the aftermath forced his windpipe to squeeze tighter, until fear of what he might find had Sylar ambling around sightlessly with tears obscuring his eyes.

But then he saw him. Somehow. Even though he had been going in the other direction and had no good reason to glance over that way. And in the next instant Sylar was running again.

*

The pair noticed each other at the exact same time. Peter didn't believe it at first. Even when red and blue light flowed over the hunched, scared stance of that figure and the breathless distress on his face was every bit Sylar. Then the man was hurrying forward, slipping past dozens of victims and their families with no attention, and the truth Peter had been afraid to hope for all day finally floated into his hands. It was finally his turn to be found.

He moaned in pain as he climbed down from the ambulance, hastily shedding the embrace of the foil blanket now that he had the real thing coming. He only made it a few, stumbling steps before Sylar cleared the distance between them and the men fell into each other.

Peter clung onto this man tighter than he had even the pipe when his life depended on it. He grabbed a handful of wet jacket with the arm not pinned to his body in a sling, far beyond caring that his face was buried in clothes that smelled of soggy remnants of the riverwater that still clung to himself. He trembled all over while Sylar's arms around his back instilled more comfort in him than endless hours of that blanket ever had.

*

Sylar didn't even care that there were people around. He spared no thought at all to the beady eyes of onlookers, or to what they might think of him behaving like this in public. He just hugged Peter Petrelli close to him, catching the tremors from the smaller body and imitating them unintentionally. He hid his face in Peter's overgrown, tousled hair, even though it was still obvious to the entire world that his tears had finally bested him.

Sylar snivelled like an idiot, but embarrassment didn't claim him. Instead it was only relief; pure, sweet, ambrosia that flooded through him stronger than the river had. Thank god... if he hadn't... if one of those stretchers had been... thank god...

Sure, this enhanced human might have the strength to hold off the might of the sea, but Sylar knew he wasn't strong enough to see the last person he cared about dead thanks to him. Because it would have been Sylar's fault if Peter had died today, after refusing to unlock his power of immortality. It couldn't bear thinking about.

It felt like years had passed in a single heartbeat before he found his voice with difficulty, mumbling next to Peter's ear. “A-are you alright?”

The smaller man didn't answer. He only groaned when Sylar squeezed him tighter. Shaken by the small sound, the watchmaker reluctantly pulled free to examine Peter. Sylar held him by his good arm, slowly taking in the mess of his only friend. Broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, an open gash tearing along his jawline, mud everywhere, blood and tears everywhere else... it was horrible seeing him like that.

“Take regeneration. Please.” Sylar pleaded.

But Peter just shook his head, eyes resolute behind tears that reflected the flashing lights nearby. “No.”

“Peter –”

“No!” He repeated, passion colouring his voice. “Why should I get the easy way out when none of these people can? Huh?!”

*

Rocking back a step, Peter looked out again over the site of destruction around him. All the agony he had been bottling until now exploded out of him so forcefully he couldn't even word it right. “I wasn't good enough! I couldn't – couldn't _do_ anything to stop it, I... I _did_ this!”

Succumbing to another round of searing tears, Peter tried to hide behind the back of his hand, but Sylar shook him sturdily by the shoulder and claimed his gaze once again. How – even when he had just resurrected from death, was filthy, tear-stained and crying – could this man still be so reassuring? Flickering colours traced over the contours and tear tracks on that face, sparkling like stars in the wells of trustworthy, deep-set eyes. Peter didn't know how he had held up without him all day.

Sylar licked salty tears from his lips, then his vocal chords strangled his words on the way out. “You did your best to help as many people as you could, Peter. That's all anyone can ask.”

“My best isn't good enough.”

Peter didn't bother wiping away the tracks rolling down his face, because the flow of water was constant and it had no sign of stopping. His heart was shattering into pieces within his broken chest, and no words could ever express what he was going through inside. Everything was out of place, everything was _wrong_ and nobody heard him scream for help because nobody believed him.

“You...” He tried to focus on Sylar while he was just a smudged, familiar shape in Peter's vision. He fought to breathe evenly, but it was impossible with a rib stabbing into his organs. “You did som-something... _extraordinary_ today. But _I_...” He couldn't even say it.

*

Sylar's chest stuttered with every beat of his heart. His hand still rested on Peter's shoulder but he felt so disconnected from the man, from his anguish and the shame he was suffering through alone. The former villain could only watch as the other man hid behind his hair and dripped tears at the ground, scrubbing a palm to his forehead as if that would elevate the pressure inside his skull.

Which of course it wouldn't. Because there was only one thing that could.

Sylar rubbed Peter's shoulder in a pathetic attempt to soothe him, when he knew perfectly well what he could _really_ do to help. He could stop being so selfish, for one thing. Peter said he'd done something extraordinary in holding off the river today... but Sylar disagreed. While, yes, he had to admit it did sound impressive in theory, and it had left a hint of achievement behind: it was counterproductive and dishonest of him to count that stunt a victory in terms of his self improvement.

If today had hammered home one thing for Sylar, it was that the world was certainly huge and broken and unstable, and it needed all the help it could get. And where was he? Actively standing in the way of that. Hiro Nakamura had once said Sylar would grow into a great man, if he led with his heart. But that hadn't happened, had it? But maybe that was because he _hadn't_ led with his heart?

...Maybe he really had to start doing that? He knew exactly where to begin. And if taking the plunge happened to work out in a way that he'd never have to worry about losing his friend again, so be it. He sniffed through blocked sinuses and swiped at his eyes with his knuckles, feeling nerves flutter all over his body. It was frightening, but what did that say about him when _this_ was a true, heroic act? More so to Sylar than stopping the sea in its tracks? Of course it was going to be scary, so much so that he chose not to dwell on it too long. That didn't mean it wasn't right.

The ambulance lights continued to swoop and flicker around the men, and Sylar breathed in cold, summer air and the smell of the sea. It was dark beyond the lights, and people bustled around the pair at all sides. Despite that, it was quite a personal space, and he could feel he would have no trouble with it.

Under the pretense of inspecting the cut on his jaw, Sylar shuffled half a step closer and reached for Peter's chin, tipping it up so he could see him. His fingers brushed softly through untended stubble, and he pretended to be looking at the wound even though he had a feeling Peter knew what he was really working up the courage to do. The guy didn't stop him or protest, and Sylar focused on the smallest touch of skin to skin contact to ground him.

They were easily intimate enough to make it work. So Sylar let his frame relax and fell into the sensation that was unspooling from his core. There was no need to concentrate wholly like he had done on the fire escape earlier, or even with the river. Because this was natural, biological, emotional, and logic and intellect had nothing at all to do with it. Tentatively, he leaked the power through the pads of his fingers and into Peter Petrelli, slipping into the man's soul with care.

And holy shit, was it different than last time he'd been here. Stunned, Sylar tiptoed along the golden pathway of his creation, stretching into every corner of Peter with the help of Lydia's ability.

He recognised the place, but it had been renovated all over in the half a year since Sylar's last visit. He swam along the channel that connected his soul to another's, recognising the bravery, honesty and resilience that he had so admired last time... but he couldn't trust himself to identify everything else. The mountain of guilt Peter had harboured before was almost unrecognisable now, as infected and swollen as it had become lately. Responsibility weighed down every surface, and that damn hero complex now dripped from the walls and onto everything inside them, scrawled in snide, sneering comments about never being good enough no matter how hard he tried...

Like looking through one eye at a time, Sylar was aware of Peter's face twitching and wincing whenever he ventured too close to a tender spot of self-hatred, at the same time as he was entirely engrossed inside the man's soul. It certainly wasn't the same touching, wholesome experience from last time – not at all. Instead, Sylar had seen enough already and he'd barely gotten started.

Shame-faced, he backtracked, hurrying to the way out before the walls collapsed in on him and the secondhand pain of Peter's curse split him apart in a way that regeneration would never be able to remedy –

*

He didn't watch when Sylar came back to the present. He didn't want to see the other man's reaction to seeing just how ugly he was beneath the surface. But it was so much easier to just let him look rather than try to explain it all.

The hand on Peter's jaw dropped away very quickly, and he bit his lips to keep them steady. He got it. He couldn't even blame Sylar, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. More heat trickled from his tearducts and Peter stared away into the darkness beyond more flashes of red and blue. But then his heart fluttered when a soft breath touched his cheek.

“Okay, Peter.”

It took a while to sink in. Then Peter made himself be brave and meet the gaze that was sizzling into his face. To his surprise, and more confusion, it wasn't dripping with disgust, or fake understanding, or even sympathy. ...No. Unless Peter was more screwed up than he thought, Sylar was looking down on him now with the timid brush of... concession?

“...I'll fix your ability.”

*

It might have been worth it just to watch the moment Peter realised what this meant. The man's whole person lit up and he gasped, bundling his body into Sylar in another hug that almost knocked him off his feet.

Sylar wrapped his arms protectively around his only companion for the second time in five minutes. The pair rocked on the spot, pressed together so tightly their souls could have connected this way. Even in the midst of all the emergency workers, victims and watching civilians, Sylar melted into such an unashamed embrace, letting every detail imprint upon his memory. He had just signed away his soul for this, after all.

“Thank you!”

The whisper against his neck made his skin tingle. He recalled the tangled, matted mess inside both this little hero's body and mind, and for the life of him Sylar couldn't un-see just _how_ intense his crushing lack of self-worth was.

He couldn't understand it. It staggered him completely. It petrified him more. And there was no doubt over what he had to do next because right now he knew he would do anything, anything at all, to make Peter Petrelli stop feeling that way.

“Thank you, Sylar... thank you...”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit, these were very difficult chapters to write (at first it was just one, but as usual it got away from me and became far too long for me not to split it).
> 
> I truly hope this didn't upset anyone who's experienced the recent natural disasters, but if I did that was never my intention. I've had the tidal wave planned since before I started writing the story (it's even in my trailer), but with the recent disasters that have happened in the world I almost wrote out this entire section. The very last thing I would ever want is to be insensitive or upset anyone with the subject matters in this story X(
> 
> But I decided to keep it in, for much more than Peter and Sylar's storyline. I wanted to share an idea with you all that helps me when things are very scary in today's world: I like to close my eyes and think of heroes who could save us, who could be out there protecting us with powers that can battle even the biggest natural disasters. It comforts me to think of Peter and Sylar and how they could help as many people as possible, and if this happens to have helped you too then I'm more than happy to share this thought <3
> 
> In terms of these chapters and the journey of our favourite heroes, please let me know what you think. Thank you, as always, for reading! I can't wait to share the next part of the story with you guys (even though I've already been waiting a year and a half to get here XP), so hopefully the fate of our boys won't be left unresolved for too long ^.^


	21. Fix You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks so much for coming back to my story ^.^ I really hope you enjoy this chapter, but I have to tell you it gets a little graphic and gory in places. You have been warned!

Tracy Strauss hadn't smoked a cigarette in years. Yet she craved one as badly now as she had while trying to quit for the first time.

Her mind was still reeling from the recent disaster of her first Renautas mission. What a fuck up. It turned out it didn't get easier to swallow with time, and it didn't do anything to ease the symptoms of sleep deprivation after working all through the subsequent night and day.

It was safe to say Tracy was getting more than stir crazy in here.

The sting of another failed mission permeated every particle in this goddamned shoebox of an office. True, it was a rather grand shoebox that happened to be lined with squeaky clean walls and obscenely expensive tech, but there was only so long a girl could stay cooped up in a space that reeked of stress before something had to give. Right now, that something was Tracy's sobriety.

Empty fingers twitching restlessly, she leaned her forehead against the window that spanned the entire height of the wall. She looked out blankly upon the sprawling shadow of Texas, trying to zone out Noah's schmoozing voice from the other side of the room. It was sickly. It was useless. It was just another godawful excuse to buy them time.

“...I understand your concern, Erica, but I can assure you my team have it all under control... Well that's very generous of you, I appreciate it...”

Tracy crossed her arms painfully tight across her chest, as if that could compensate for the ongoing chaos that was by no means 'under control' – by Noah Bennet's team or anyone else's. She could barely hack much more of the man's lies or smooth-talking, and hated how easily it seemed to come to him. Over the hours Tracy had only further come to dislike Bennet's businessman-like demeanor when it came to charming more resources from the boss. Mostly because it got clearer with every 'kindly' smile that Tracy had been suckered into this excuse for a job by the very same (and now very transparent) ruse that Noah was currently using to cover their asses after letting two fugitives escape once again.

He was doing well though, Tracy had to admit. Credit where credit is due and all. Although she suspected this latest Company blunder had significantly been overshadowed by that crackpot in Manhattan nearly ripping the island in half. If one positive had to come out of that disaster, it was that at least Erica Kravid had gotten her finger out and started to take Noah's case seriously. If an evo with even _one_ power could do something so disruptive on their own, what did that say about the threat of Noah's two main obsessions?

Or that was the angle he was playing, anyway.

Tracy huffed and looked out upon the rest of the world, unseen and untouchable from up high in this fortress. It looked so peaceful out there. She couldn't see or hear the riots that were spreading across the entire country, protesting the free reign of evolved humans or the amendments to the soon to be mandatory Evo Registration Act. She couldn't even tell that this whole building was buzzing with another shift on the world's axis. It was all happening though, without a doubt.

“I've got a team over there now closing in on the son of a bitch. We'll have him before dawn...” Noah sang his silky spell into his phone, one rehearsed to perfection after a lifetime invested in the profession of lying.

Actually, Tracy believed him this time. That crazy fucker who tore the street apart yesterday was likely being apprehended this very moment. He wouldn't last long against Renautas – not without the never ending inventory of powers that _some_ fugitives had at their disposal.

He was just a man, after all. A man who had a terrible thing happen to him and didn't know how to control his reaction. It wasn't an impossible scenario. In fact, it was much too close to heart for Tracy's own liking. Really, she couldn't blame the guy for getting so angry at the treatment of his kind.

_Their_ kind.

His anger ran flush through her veins even though they'd never met, and it was enough to make her want to run out on this toxic organisation and never look back. If it wasn't for the promise of status and comfort she'd bargained. Or the fact that she'd finally seen for herself why Renautas were such a crucial part of this brave new world of outed superpowers.

Yes, the evo had a life and a family and his own justifications for going off on one like he had. But he was far too dangerous to be left unchecked. So many of them were, in a way Tracy had never had the incentive to realise until so many people had to get hurt.

A glint of movement in the parking lot far below caught the woman's sharp eyes. She watched, with a knot in her stomach, as a black, windowless van rolled to a stop at the loading dock.

She knew the drill too well, even before watching it all unfold earlier in the day: the driver and passenger doors would open, two agents would stalk to the back of the van and pop the doors, the apprehended fugitive would be lifted from the van, shot with a fresh dose of drugs, and then dragged into the shadowy recesses of the building. The sensations resurfaced from the depths of Tracy's memory, borne from the time she, herself, had once been taken into custody as a prisoner of the Company.

She shivered, a cloud of breath fogging up the window, before she noticed ice creeping a crystal web across the face in her reflection. Quickly she got her ability in check, before her new boss could notice.

“Thank you, Erica. I'll keep you informed.”

Noah ended the call behind Tracy just as she recognised the round face and glasses of Renautas' newest captive exiting the van. It wasn't as painful to watch as when Micah Sanders had been brought in half conscious, young, helpless... for a moment she had very nearly quit. Even now it was difficult to turn her back on the sight and let it happen – but Hiro Nakamura (she knew from experience) was just as handy with a right hook as the power to manipulate time. He was far from a harmless young kid.

Tracy briefly shook herself, rocking on bare feet and running her hands through the length of her tired hair for the countless time. It badly needed some attention after spending nearly twenty four hours in this room, but her priorities had long since strayed from suffering her fantastic-but-agonising shoes and maintaining a fresh face of make-up.

Trying hard not to yawn, she left the window to instead drop down at the table that existed somewhere beneath a growing layer of empty coffee cups. “She took it well, then?” Tracy asked pointlessly, attempting to lounge in her chair as much as the uncomfortable, simplistic design would allow.

As soon as his phone was slipped out of sight, Noah Bennet lost all traces of amicability. Now he just looked exhausted, frustrated, a man at the end of his rope who was desperately trying to keep it together. He crossed the room to lean against the window where Tracy had just been. His eyes never once strayed down to the loading bay or its unwitting inhabitant.

“It doesn't even matter. If we don't get our hands on some useful intelligence on Petrelli and Sylar...” Noah's brow was formed into such a heavy frown that it might have shattered the window before his face. “They're out there somewhere.” He grumbled to himself, removing his glasses and rubbing at purple bags around his eyes.

Tracy wasn't even going to bother with encouraging words. But if she had been, she would have been rudely interrupted by a panting and sweating Matt Parkman bursting his way, unannounced, into the office.

“N-Noah...!” He gasped, covered head to toe in splashes of paint and looking equally as sleep deprived as his co-workers. Neither of them bothered to look up at his dramatic return.

“Let me guess... you didn't find them?” Tracy drawled. She couldn't get her hopes up. This repeat performance had gotten boring hours ago.

“I've got s-something much more important than _that_.” Panting, the former cop glared daggers at her reclined form. Tracy didn't care. She'd already dealt with too many fragile, inflated egos over her time in politics.

“It better be good news.” Noah sighed, returning his famous horn rimmed glasses to their usual perch. Tracy had to admire the way he managed not to sound as totally pissed off and unenthusiastic as she knew he must be by now.

“Not exactly.” Catching his breath, Parkman staggered across the office, gesturing a fresh canvas in his hand. He slapped the thing down on the tabletop, sending a stream of empty coffee cups cascading to the floor.

Straightening in her seat, Tracy dubiously squinted at Parkman's latest masterpiece. The paint was still drying as she worked to decipher the brash use of colour and caricature, expecting just another dead end. However, slowly, the image made sense in her mind; the shadows and faces and generous splashes of paint forming itself into something coherent. Something grotesque but invaluable.

Still, it wasn't until Noah's footsteps came to a stop at the back of her chair, a violent stream of air hissing from his nostrils, that Tracy finally believed what she was seeing foretold.

A familiar man. Drenched in red. Hunched over the lifeless form of the other.

***

Peter took care to snick the door shut behind him without looking as guilty as he felt. The fluorescent lighting of the corridor was harsh on his eyes after the dimness of the stairwell, but luckily he knew his way around too well for that to slow him down.

Heart hammering, he set off through the winding labyrinth of Mercy Heights hospital while trying not to draw too much attention to himself.

Just act casual. Blend in. Act like you're doing nothing wrong and no one's gonna know... Peter tried to drum these encouragements into himself, but he was far too physched up to play it cool. Every step added weight to his expectantly empty pockets, and every passing second brought him closer to... well, his recently healed ribcage was doing a questionable job of keeping his heart contained, at any rate.

It was the weirdest feeling to be back here again, like re-visiting high school after so much has happened since. Had it really only been a few _months_? Peter was jittery and jumpy under the pretense of deceit, which probably wasn't helping his ruse much. Unable to possibly feel even guiltier, he didn't look at his own pixelated image branded on repeat over every news station, or meet the eyes of anyone who might possibly put two and two together. He just kept his head down and walked steady, taking a sudden interest in the vending machines whenever nurses or patients or visitors passed him by.

As soon as his destination came into sight, he had to physically stop himself from bolting down the corridor toward it. As it was, he managed to keep a cool head (at least on the outside), until he'd successfully passed the nurses station and slipped inside the welcome reprieve of his trusty old supply closet. Then he finally let himself breathe.

The place still held an air of escape about it. Perhaps if he hadn't been in a hurry he would have taken a moment to simply hide from the world in here, like he'd used to in his first few weeks back in reality. But Peter was under strict instructions, and he didn't want to wait one more minute than was absolutely necessary.

He busied himself in shelves and boxes with the practiced ease of a former nurse. Upon pain of death, he made sure not to forget to grab disposable gloves, and rifled his way through whichever solutions might be strong enough to counteract a particularly resilient superpower...

The clinking of glass bottles and the pounding of his own heart were all Peter could focus on. He was so distracted that he didn't hear movement at the door, or see the figure of a person cross the closet until they rounded the end of his shelf. And near enough gave him a heart attack.

“...Peter?”

Guilt exploded from the empath in the form of a very undignified jump. Panicking, he juggled a handful of bottles while struggling to find his footing, sight, and a hasty excuse all at once! But that last faded away when his mind finally caught up to him. Shit...

“Emma!” He gasped, caught in the headlights of an uneasy gaze. “Hi! ...Uh, what – what're you doing in here?” He babbled breathlessly, hastily stuffing two handfuls of stolen medication into his pockets.

“What are _you_ doing in here?” She didn't look amused, but Peter could hardly blame her. He hadn't seen his friend since before the oil rig had exploded and thrown his whole life into upheaval once again – she had every right to be confused at his sudden reappearance.

Shying away under such acute suspicion, Peter cursed himself for being so foolish and letting this old closet lull him into a false sense of security. Emma Coolidge was still just staring at him, tearing him apart with her eyes as if she could see right through to the core of his many secrets – a feat that, at this very moment, felt like one achieved.

“Listen... I can explain.” Peter started feebly, although he didn't even know where to begin. Not that it would have made a slightest bit of difference anyway.

Quiet and observant as ever, this woman was nobody's fool. “You've been very busy the past few months.” She stated.

The fleeting thought to try and lie his way out came and went, because Peter didn't want to be dishonest with her. His two worlds collided as Emma, a fragment of his old life, walked right into the tornado of his present, and she was soft and gentle and radiated warmth like the hidden colours of the world that only she could see. Everything about her was familiar: from the elegant twist of her ponytail to the subtle question in the line of her brow. Peter hadn't even realised until now just how much he'd missed her.

Had it really been years since the tender hope of something had been too shy to grow between them? Back when an act as small as playing the piano together could be the most meaningful part of a relationship? It had felt like a lot at the time. But so much had happened since then. Far too much to explain, and far too much to ignore.

Accepting defeat, Peter let out a sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. “I know what it looks like. Alright? And I can't blame you if you wanna turn me in, but it's not what you think, I swear!” He insisted, bracing himself for the worst. It wasn't the worry of getting caught that upset him most: it was seeing distrust and rejection on the face of yet another of his old allies.

It stung when Emma's pleasant face twisted into a skeptical expression. Then she spoke with one eyebrow raised. “You've... _not..._ been saving lives?”

...Wait, what? Peter was so used to the alternative that it took him far too long to process what she'd said. It wasn't until a relenting smile finally touched Emma's mouth that relief broke over his burden like the sunrise on a mountain, and his own lips tugged themselves up in stunned gratitude.

So she didn't hate him? She didn't think he was evil and corrupt and using his powers to bring the planet to its knees? It was almost unbelievable. It was also one of the nicest feelings in the world.

Peter didn't know what to say to that, or how to express his appreciation. He blushed under Emma's smile and the way she continued to look him over with that x-ray vision of hers. There weren't words to explain how much he cherished her support when the most of the world showed him none. Luckily, she didn't wait for him to speak first.

“It's good to see you.” She said so simply, so honestly. She toyed with a folder in her fingers, one Peter had evidently distracted her from transporting, hovering halfway between the end of the row of shelves and him.

A pleasant feeling swaddled his chest, as if the bandages still wrapped pointlessly around his ribs were giving off heat. He'd forgotten that this woman always seemed to be good at doing that to him. The warmth only increased when Emma took half a step towards him before faltering. Moved by her nerves, Peter buried his own and met her halfway in a bashful hug that felt just as awkward as it did adorable.

He remembered when Emma had been the only kind face in his entire life. The times he had actually looked forward to doing paperwork just so he might catch her in passing at the file room. Yes, Peter's feelings for her may have changed with the passage of time and a drastic shift in perspective; and he didn't really know her and she definitely didn't know him anymore... but that didn't mean he couldn't still care about her as a friend.

“S'good to see you too.” He confessed over her shoulder. He meant it even more than he thought he would.

***

_'...the river, calling for an evacuation of the entire street. Protests are still developing across the nation, some claiming the authorities have lost control of the Evo population...'_

Riots. Yelling. Tears. Crowds of people opposing each other with contrasting morals and contrasting poster boards. There were so many of them. The chaos scrolled by in a blur from all over the world, spanning every race, gender, age and even species of human.

When footage from the East River Incident flashed up for the countless time since that morning, Hesam huffed, tore his gaze from the news, and pretended to concentrate on filling in the paperwork from his latest call. He didn't need to see that shit again. Especially when the aftermath of the casualties was still echoing around the corridors of this very hospital. Along with many others in the city.

Really though, it was difficult not to watch the wall-mounted TV above him. Even when it just droned on yet again about the death toll and the rescue missions and every and all attempts to recover from the actions of the nutjob who could move the earth with his bare hands.

' _…authorities have taken the apprehended evo into custody. No updates have been released, however, on the whereabouts of the two so-called vigilantes who were also spotted at the scene...'_

On the screen, there appeared multiple recordings of two distinct figures: in the distance; running through the depths of the crevice in the road; unleashing inhuman powers upon the victims of the tradgedy; standing before the rushing crest of water like charmers before a snake...

_'Police warn that the suspects are still considered extremely dangerous, and are urging anyone with any information to come forward...'_

At this, Hesam truly did turn his back on the broadcast. As he had every time the reports inevitably made it to this point. He wasn't an idiot. He'd spent too many overlapping shifts on call with that determined gait and floppy hair not to recognise Peter Petrelli when he saw him.

The guy had certainly had a productive few months since he'd suddenly stopped showing up to work. Again. Without even so much as a by your leave. Again. To – what? Run around the country terrorizing the media with that moody friend of his who'd used to loiter around the hospital for the end of his shifts...? Some life.

The Iranian gripped his clipboard and set off down the corridor to write on the go – anything to avoid the incessent reminders that the man he'd once considered an ally was now one of two of the country's most wanted.

It was only out of lingering respect for his friend that he hadn't reported him already. Plus, he had a hard time believing all the stories. How many disasters were Peter and his new best buddy apparently responsible for by now? Ten? Ten hundred...? But maybe Peter wasn't the kind, understanding man he'd appeared to be all along. For one thing, he'd been hiding an entire secret life of fucking _superpowers_ that Hesam hadn't known anything about! What else about him had been a lie?

Some days Hesam liked the idea of bumping into his former partner randomly, just to give him a piece of his mind. Today was not one of those days. Which might have been why the sight of no other than Peter Petrelli slipping past the end of the corridor ahead was such a shock.

What the hell...?

It was _definitely_ him. Pockets bulging, hair in his face: he was attempting to slip past, unseen, with who Hesam was pretty sure was that quiet chick who sorted the files.

He stood frozen to the spot. Absently, he was aware of blocking up the corridor, but he didn't move. In fact, he did nothing at all of use – no kick up the ass, no harsh words – just gaped after a wanted fugitive as Peter ducked through a doorway to the stairwell and faded out of sight.

True enough, Hesam couldn't imagine that man deliberately hurting anyone. But he was clearly very dangerous. And he was here in the hospital, right now.

Hesam didn't want to cause him any harm, for old time's sake or not. He didn't want to cause _anyone_ any harm – that was why he'd built his career around _saving_ as many lives as possible! But right now, there had to be thousands of those in this building. Thousands of innocent people who could be in very real peril.

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

***

The sound of metal instruments clinking on a tray rebounded off dead tile walls. Stale air prickled the hair on Sylar's arms and the muffled silence of the place pressed in on him like breath from an invisible trespasser. It was fucking creepy in here. More reminiscent of a tomb or morgue than anything else. The working light Sylar had salvaged from down the the hall didn't make much difference, but at least it allowed him to see his ministrations with the tray he'd been slaving over for what felt like forever.

He only looked up briefly as the door clunked and groaned open, engrossed in fussing over every detail of where everything should go in order of scale and necessity, should the need arise.

“Hey, I ran into -”

“Did you get them?” Sylar demanded, holding his hand out in Peter's direction and summoning a ball of latex gloves across the room. “Thank god. _Now_ I can relax...” He scoffed, checking off another tick on his mental checklist.

“Yeah. Uh, anyway -”

“Wait!” Sylar carefully unfolded the gloves and laid them out neatly on the stainless steel table, in their pairs, with a back-up set nearby and the rest of the spares within reaching distance, just in case... But no! Now they messed up his previous arrangement which meant he would have to start all over again from the beginning, for fuck's sake!

It had to be perfect. It had to be precise and organised. It _had_ to be nothing at all like... the old days. Because this was an operation: a surgeon with his tools and willing patient, _not_ in any way a rabid animal slaughtering an unsuspecting victim...

“Sylar.”

“What? I'm concentrating!” He snapped, drawing himself out of the mechanical workings of sense and order and back into the smelly, run-down old operating theatre.

He glared across broken instruments and vandalised walls at Peter Petrelli, ready to rant some more...! Then choked on his words when his eyes landed, not on the man responsible for such agitation, but on a slightly apprehensive looking Emma Coolidge.

Sylar cringed. Although the deaf woman wouldn't have heard his words, she certainly would have been able to see the sharpness in the colours of his tone.

“...Emma.” He greeted her too late, eyes flicking between the apologetic look on Peter's face, the placement of his hand on Emma's back, and the small distance between the pair.

*

Peter read the many overlapping questions that tumbled over each other in Sylar's eyes, none of which were voiced. Only now did he realise how careless he'd been in not asking his friend before dragging an outsider into their shitshow.

“Peter told me what you're doing here. I want to help you.” Emma thoughtfully supplied into the taut stretch of silence.

“She's gonna keep watch.” Peter elaborated, trying to convey an explaination through his facial features alone. He hated that he hated that he felt bad for being excited, when his closest friend was falling apart at the same time.

Sylar just stared at the newcomers to the room, chewing on an answer that Peter half dreaded. He had already been snarky and uptight during the days it had taken him to organize everything to his standards, but Peter had let Sylar's foul mood fly because he understood the guy was only in such a state because of him. Still, the former murderer hadn't backed out on his promise to help. He hadn't put in anything less than 100% effort to iron out as many issues with the plan as he could.

But right now, he looked about as offended as he had when Peter had suggested they do the procedure at home instead of the hospital. Thankfully, though, Sylar pushed away the subsequent lecture in favor of manners for the benefit of their guest.

*

Sylar licked his suddenly dry lips. “That's very good of you.” He directed his next words at Emma also, although his eyes were on the shifty looking empath at her side. “What did Peter say exactly?”

“That you're going to fix his ability. Make him able to help more people.” Emma smiled her sweet smile at him, but the usual comfort she exuded didn't pierce his armour. It stung, instead.

“I'm going to try.”

Sylar didn't bother asking Peter if he'd neglected to mention Emma would be guarding blood and gore and the potential of a lifetime of horrors to be brought to the surface, because of course he had. He'd always had a soft spot for this girl, a stupid soft spot that would make him omit crucial details to spare her innocence and agree to idiotic plans just because she batted her eyes at him.

Of course Sylar couldn't refuse without sounding like an asshole. Already the feelers of guilt were pressing at him, trying to get in, because Emma was beginning to look unsure and a little upset at his hesitance. He didn't want to offend her, one of the few people left in the world who was (yes, Sylar had to admit) one of the good ones. But what was he supposed to do? Welcome her to the party of the damned with pom poms and a highschool cheer...?

Sure, allies were very hard to come by nowadays. It could be useful having a lookout in case someone happened to waltz down to this closed-off section of the old hospital on a coffee break. But it was just foolish to add another variable to the already precariously balancing pile. Not to mention unpleasant to have someone intrude upon as personal a deed as this one.

Against his better judgement, however, Sylar dipped his head in acquiescence. Peter perked up more than the bouncing ball of adrenaline he already had been, and Sylar wanted to resent the reminder that the guy's happiness was what got him into this mess in the first place. He couldn't quite get there, though.

“Let's get this over with, then.”

*

Emma watched the rush of thrill consume Peter anew, spilling colours from his lips that couldn't be more different to those entwining Sylar. He shone at her, speaking as clearly as possible so she couldn't misinterpret the dance of his lips.

“Unless you absolutely have to... uh.... don't come in. No matter what you see.” He flashed a small smile Emma's way, as if it could compensate for the rather ominous words themselves.

...Okay... Emma might have wanted to rescind her offer of help right then, had this been anyone else she'd teamed up with. A spooky operating theatre in the closed off part of the building? A sincere lack of enthusiasm from Sylar, tangled up in hues of fear? And now the blatant implication that someone could get hurt if things went wrong? Yep, it was definitely the smart thing to do to take off and not look back. But in her heart Emma was a doctor, one who wanted to do her best to help others, and taking risks was just part of the deal sometimes.

Peter Petrelli was still beaming at her. He looked so different than the man who had saved her from being hit by a speeding bus once upon a time, but it wasn't due to the fact that she'd rarely seen him outside his EMT's uniform, or that his hair was so long now the ends of it almost brushed his chin. Emma was only a few years older than him, but right now she was extremely aware of it in the way this young man was burdened before his time. A lifetime of watching people had left its mark on the little deaf girl who'd sat at the back of the classroom in preferred silence, and even if she couldn't literally see the shift in the shades of his voice, she'd have known so much had changed in Peter since they'd last spoken.

Even then, though, something shone as true in him as it had from the first day they'd met. Trust. And she trusted him to trust her to help him.

*

Sylar listened to Emma bidding himself and Peter good luck, then Peter seeing her to the door with more hushed encouragements. He pretended to be absorbed in setting out a towel on the operating table, but he just couldn't get back into the same state of mind.

The door squealed shut and the empath's footsteps crossed to an old trolley behind Sylar, then the sound of him emptying the entire contents of the supply closet from his pockets echoed around the tiles.

“You two looked cosy.”

“C'mon, y'know it's not like that.” Peter messed with his collection of glass bottles, tinkling them together like wind chimes in the distance. “She caught me upstairs, and when she asked to help I... I just couldn't disappoint her. I'm sorry, I know I didn't ask you first.”

Sylar shook his head. “Doesn't matter. Take your shirt off.”

He missed the look Peter threw in his direction, far too busy controlling his breathing and trying not to crumple under the impending weight of what was about to transpire any moment now. He was taking it second by second, as each one came and went and the unwavering conveyor belt of time brought him closer and closer to the thing he was most dreading.

Now that Peter was back in the room, it wasn't just a case of waiting for him to return then worrying about that part. Now that Emma was outside, someone would know if he freaked out and tried to run away. Now that Sylar had his equipment ready and Peter had his, there was nothing left to throw in their path in hopes of slowing things down.

There was no point denying it any longer: it was going to happen. Right now.

*

Peter pulled his t-shirt over his head, setting it down with a swoop in his gut next to his discarded sling from earlier. Hopefully any stray bloodspatter wouldn't be able to reach it here. A shiver crept up his bare torso while Peter unwound the bandagaes from his ribs, unnecessary since his currently regenerating bones had mended themselves. He rubbed his arms to counteract goosebumps, wishing he was back in Charles' apartment instead of lurking in the mangy shadows of this room, even despite the extreme clean up that would have to happen after.

Location wasn't the most important thing, though. By far.

In the almost darkness, Peter prepared the sedative that he hoped would be most effective, his fingers clumsy on the needle and his hair unhelpfully falling in his eyes. He glanced back at the hunched form of Sylar, illuminated beneath the cone of the single working light in the place, hard at work.

His heart ached in his chest. If _he_ was feeling so nervous and he was the one pushing this, he could only imagine how Sylar was feeling. The taste of his abilities – unleashed, unburdened, unbroken – was stirring on the very tip of his tongue, and Peter wanted it more than anything! Even though he had currently broken into his old workplace, dragged a lost friend into the perpetual danger that surrounded him, and turned the other into an overwrought wreck, he couldn't help that he hadn't felt so _right_ about something in a long, long time.

However, it was his curse never to be single-minded. Of course such a joy was connected at the seams with Sylar's misery.

Peter could vividly recall the look on his companion's face at their reunion at the ambulances. He could still feel the embrace days later, feel wet eyelashes brushing his cheek, hear the relief in the other man's voice that hadn't been shielded or guarded in the slightest. He knew why Sylar had changed his mind to fix his ability, and he cherished it when it felt like the rest of the world didn't care at all if he lived or died.

But was it wrong of him? To let Sylar use his fear of losing him to further Peter's desires? And was it terrible that he really, truly, desperately wanted to let it come to pass anyway? Just this once?

*

Sylar was using all his might to keep the shutters closed on his memories, to back kick everything and _everyone_ who attempted to reach through and grab him all over again.

He could feel it stirring. Again.

The anticipation; the increase in his heartbeat until he could hardly bear it; the itch in his fingers that got so intense it began to hurt – except this time, it was all in pure revulsion. Terror. Dread. There was not one flicker of greed in his person, and Sylar knew he should have been overjoyed at that. Only, he didn't want to dwell on it and give it enough attention to try and revolt.

His hands were shaking so badly that the tray clattered while he failed to neaten the awaiting swabs and towels and bandages (just in case) for the millionth time. “Damn it!” He cursed, dangerously close to just throwing the thing clear across the room.

The whirlpool of stress only ceased in pulling him down once Peter appeared into his line of sight, directly before him, accompanied by the obligatory sense of calm that Sylar both hated and yearned for at once.

“Hey, hey, hey...” Sylar blinked his friend into focus, just in time to feel warm hands encase his wrists, holding them steady. Slightly embarassed, he made himself look directly at Peter's face, burning under the empathy there. “We talked about this. Y'know you can still change your mind. If you don't wanna do it anymore.”

The temptation was almost too sweet. For Sylar had no doubt Peter _would_ walk away from this if he wished it. It could really be that easy, and all the pain that Sylar was fighting to keep from falling on him would ease. ...But what was heroic about that?

“No.” He affirmed. “I'll do it.”

Nerves were crackling along his skin like sparks of electricity, and although he needed space and air and not to be treated like a tantrum-throwing kid right now, he didn't pull free from the gentle insistence of Peter's hands. The man's head tilted up a little, those eyes spearing Sylar to the core. “But...?”

What if it goes wrong? What if I mess up...? I've already caused you so much pain, ruined everything you ever loved, I couldn't bear it if I ruined you too... Sylar couldn't say it all aloud. Instead he tried to regain as much composure as was possible, closing off his features and keeping every and all emotion out of his voice because it was easier to sound cold than sound vulnerable.

“I just don't want to hurt you.”

*

The unspoken 'again' ricochetted off the tiled walls and steel surfaces of the operating apparatus, before coming to a stop lodged in Peter's gut like a splinter of a bullet.

He got it. Of course he did. But it was an ingrained reaction in him to hate every reminder that his friend had once been the monster who killed Peter's brother in cold blood, the man who had done all those despicable things to so many innocents. However, he was also the same person who had gone to impossible lengths to keep Peter sane while in hell. Who had been there for him and cared for him when nobody else could. Who had become the only thing to keep Peter going and given him a purpose, a reason not to give up.

Yes, he had hurt Peter much more than once. But he had also rescued him too many times to count.

“Sylar,” He sighed, letting go of Sylar's wrist in order to slowly stroke the back of the man's head.

The acceptance of him not pulling free like last time was enough to soothe the goosebumps that still flared on Peter's naked skin. Sylar's facade didn't fool him in the slightest. He could see right through it as if it were made of glass.

“You are _not_ a killer anymore, and you're _not_ a monster. I know it's scary, okay? But it's gonna be alright, I promise.” He spoke with everything he had, hoping he could somehow manage to ease the concern reflected back at him on that expression through touch and words combined. “We're in this thing together, bud. You can do this. I _know_ it.”

*

Peter's heartfelt assurance didn't assure him in the slightest. The hand in his hair was more guilt inducing than comforting, yet Sylar didn't want to be free of such a kindness he didn't feel worthy of. The smaller man had been particularly clingy since the incident with the river, and Sylar didn't doubt why. Still, he wasn't going to complain about his sacrifice being appreciated in the form of increasingly affectionate touches he didn't fully deserve, as long as no one else could see them.

This optimism infecting his friend reminded Sylar how much he wanted to repair the wound that had been inflicted upon him, and have him be happy and satisfied all the time. It was just the getting there that was the problem. But if Sylar could surprise himself by holding off a tidal wave for fuck's sake – surely he could do this! Right?

And if not... trying was still better than doing nothing at all.

Failing in his faked detachment, Sylar closed his eyes and tried to draw strength from the heat of Peter's palms, the tickle of fingers against his scalp. He imagined it like the tingle of golden light when Peter took one of his abilities into himself, just in reverse. If something _did_ go wrong, and either of them emerged broken on the other side, then at least Sylar wanted to take this moment with him.

He nodded although he didn't have the confidence to believe in it.

“Thank you.” Peter said, for what must have been the hundredth time already. Sylar didn't need to call on Lydia's ability to feel how deep this appreciation truly ran.

Wordlessly, he let the smaller man guide him forward until their foreheads came to rest lightly against each other's, a submission from them both. He told himself he might have ducked out of such an inappropriately intimate display, if only he hadn't been in desperate need of the support that Peter desperately needed to bestow. So the pair just stayed that way, touching, breathing together, lifting each other up until they were brave enough to finally move forward.

When Peter pulled back, he was trying to hide the excitement that consumed him like a kid who had been allowed to open his Christmas presents early. Sylar wished he could share in it, or that at least it didn't hurt him as much as it did.

Before he could back out, the watchmaker swiftly got back down to business. Reluctantly, he wheeled a squeaking chair to the head of the operating table while Peter expertly set up an IV and inserted it into his own arm. He didn't even wince at the pain. Maybe it was just as well. Because if _that_ hurt him, how could he ever fare against...?

*

Peter went through the motions with ridiculous simplicity. He'd imagined it would've been more complicated than simply climbing onto the table, lying back and then just waiting for sleep to claim him, but it wasn't.

The slab was cold to lie on, despite the towel Sylar had kindly put down for him. Then Peter just watched the flare of the lamp above him and the ancient mold creating patterns on the ceiling beyond. His pulse thumped through his veins like a drum roll. He fought back memories of getting an x-ray as a kid after he'd fallen off his bike and bumped his head, and of a lost future when he'd looked up at a dark haired Claire with terror in his heart and restraints around his wrists.

The empath wriggled a little to get comfortable, trying his arms flat by his sides, then folded across his torso, then by his sides again. His chest was heaving even to his own eyes, and every exposed inch of his skin prickled under the spotlight and attention of the room around him.

Change was always going to be scary. It was okay to be a little afraid. Even if Peter knew he had the easy part of blacking out and waking up once everything had been done for him. He didn't even want to think too much of the in-between part.

Tension spiraled through the air as the countdown neared zero. Peter could physically feel it falling onto him like layers of snow... weighing down his limbs until he could barely be bothered to move them at all... he watched as it actually became visible to his eyes, creeping along the outside of his vision like a border blurring things at the edges...

It was worth it, though. He still couldn't believe what reality was screaming at him. Even just the thought of it... All the times he'd hit the invisible wall of potential and he wasn't allowed to be as much as he _knew_ he could be; every instance where problems could have been solved so easily _if only_ he could hold more than one ability; every mission when he'd had to hang back and let Sylar go on ahead because he was the strong one; even the first night he'd cried himself to sleep after his father had broken him, unable to comprehend what he'd thought had been stolen forever... finally it was all going to be remedied?

He felt the moment the sedative managed to overpower his regeneration – not enough to cancel it out, just enough to surpass it. Or so he hoped, anyway. Aware that he only had seconds left of consciousness, Peter twisted to look for Sylar, who appeared above him looking right back down. The world was hazy but the man's face was clear against the rest of it, an anchor that grounded him and kept him afloat at the same time.

“I'm right here.” Those lips had stopped moving long before the sound reached Peter's ears, but when it did it soothed him. His arm was heavy, but he managed to lift it and somehow ended up linking his fingers into Sylar's, squeezing them tight.

Peter smiled woozily. “See you... when I wake up. 'Kay?” He husked, fighting the blackness until Sylar gifted him the smallest curve of his mouth in return.

The most saturated flare of fear hit him now that he was passing the point of no return. He held steady and let it scroll by. He could barely control his fingers anymore, but Sylar was still holding onto him, keeping him company as the drugs clawed him under.

“Th-thank you.” Peter managed, before it was too late. The last thing he was aware of was a final blast of gratitude that warmed his very bones, and then everything floated away around him until he was suspended in nothing but the soothing silence of unconsciousness.

*

Only when he was certain Peter was asleep, Sylar let out a long, shaking breath.

Maybe it was because he was no longer under scrutiny, or maybe because the waiting was over and the time was finally upon him, but somehow clarity rolled over him as steadily as sleep had just rolled over Peter.

Using order to cling to for guidance, Sylar took a few deep breaths to try and calm himself. Softly he slipped his fingers free from the other man's, his heart cramping in complaint. Then he positioned his chair where he'd have the best view of his patient's head, and played around with the light until he got it exactly where he wanted it. The thing creaked as it moved, sending shadows dancing across Peter's features like clouds across a pristine sky.

Sylar made sure his tray of emergency tools was closeby (checking them over quickly for the millionth time), swallowed harshly more than twice, then, tentatively, he reached out his hands. Placing his fingertips against the sleeping man's temples, he turned Peter's head gently to one side then the next, examining the best spot for entry.

It felt surreal to be doing this. It felt so different than he remembered, because he was uncomfortable and careful now instead of passionately taking the messiest route, ripping off wrapping paper to reach the prize faster. But this time he had no intentions of destroying any part of the parcel: not the precious inner core, nor a single hair upon his head.

Wishing he wasn't learning from experience, Sylar forewent the gloves he'd specifically demanded and sank his fingers into the silky smooth locks of Peter Petrelli's hair. He didn't delay in his ministrations, just stroked the dark strands off their owner's face and up, gathering them from the sides and the back while being careful not to tug a single one.

It was just another stage in this mechanism of the operation. They all were. The next one would be too, and it could be over with as quickly and painlessly as this one. Sylar narrated his work in his mind, trying to fool himself that it was just like any of his time pieces that had a gear jammed and needed unstuck. No big deal. And not at all like pinning someone to a wall in order to induce more terror before killing them slowly...

Once he had created a neat guideline through Peter's hair to follow without giving him an impromptu haircut like last time, there was no further excuse to hesitate more. Sylar didn't bother to invent one. Instead, he fumbled with a pair of disposable gloves, his fingers suddenly unable to follow simple commands, then sat there pinging the cuff and trying not to be sick while he debated over how best to begin.

It was better to get right to it rather and linger and put it off for longer. Right? Plus, who knew how long the drugs would work before regeneration roused Peter (not a nice thought), and the sooner Sylar got to work the sooner he would know if this was it for him. …Or for them both...

The former villain looked down sorrowfully upon his only friend. So peaceful. Serene. Trusting. It surprised him to find it was responsibility that smacked him in the gut harder than terror.

It would be so easy to cheat. Sylar could sit here, do fuck all and let Peter wake, say sorry, he tried his best and it didn't work... but he would never do that. What kind of cretin would he be then, after the unwavering belief this man was showing in him to do right? Peter needed him to do this – he _trusted_ him to. And Sylar had promised he would.

No. He had to go through with it. He had to be brave just like he had when the East River had crashed down on him with insatiable force, even though this was far more frightening than that had been. The fear of dying once again was nothing compared to the fear of destroying what he had right now with Peter. He could lose him. Everything they'd built, every hour they'd struggled through together...

No matter what happened here; if Peter got his powers or if Sylar reverted, or both or nothing at all, everything would be different.

No matter what, this was the last moment they would be just like this.

It would never be the same again.

Suddenly overcome, Sylar lightly, ever so gently, placed his hands on the sides of Peter's face. Feeling daring, and perhaps just because nobody could see him do it, he leaned down and touched his lips to the man's forehead. It was just a small thing. Just a token to say sorry. Just private, secret, his. It was also the first action Sylar had been truly sure about for days.

His lips trembled slightly as he pulled back, blinking rapidly and shaking himself into the right frame of mind to continue with something so crucial. Then before he could change his mind, he made the first incision directly in the centre of his kiss.

A wave of pure horror rolled through him.

Then the first drop of blood welled up like a deep red ruby against pale skin, and instinct took over. It had been so long since Sylar had done this, yet his hands remembered exactly what to do. They held steady as soon as it mattered, allowing him to trace a perfect path through the skull of his only friend, working impressively even when Sylar couldn't make sense of much past a protective veil of disbelief.

He could see the blurry shape of his dearest friend lying on the operating table, and it was far too much to process. Rivulets of blood sparkled in the lamplight, shone crimson as they oozed from the wound that Sylar was inflicting upon this sleeping body. He didn't dare draw breath in case the aroma enticed the shark within him, he didn't blink in case it brought everything into clear focus, and although the room was spinning in slow motion and his own voice was screaming in his ears to stop, he didn't. Because he was doing it for Peter.

An ancient Hunger preyed on the back of Sylar's mind, conspicuously vacant like the shadowy entrance of a monster's cave. He couldn't turn his back on it, for then surely the beast would pounce and devour him whole. It scared him to the core, but this trusting man below him had helped Sylar conquer it before, and helped him stay strong now.

Unable to tear his eyes away, the former killer watched the telekinetic blade slice through his only companion, his hero: the messiest eater Sylar had ever known, the guy who blushed under praise and smiled when you weren't looking and hated the sound of his own laugh... With every tug of flesh and bone that tried to resist him, Sylar despised himself more.

How could _anyone_ have ever done this so many times that they'd eventually grown numb to it?! Yet he had. Somehow, long ago, he had. It had been easy to disconnect from the truth, eventually. To barely even acknowledge it at all, because these people were irrelevant and it didn't matter that they had names and loved ones and hopes and dreams that he was draining from their veins –

Suddenly all venemous reflections ground to a halt, everything zeroed back in with vivid detail, and terror bubbled up inside like a volcano. Because Sylar was now just holding Peter's severed skull in place by his hand.

Jesus. Fuck. He shamelessly hesitated, his heart racing and hidden senses unfurling themselves from the darkest corners of Sylar's being. He knew perfectly well that every part of him was aware of what he'd just done, every part was alive and watching and eager and waiting... but it didn't feel good. It felt disgusting. It should have been a blessing, but Sylar couldn't thank the heavens that he was entirely present in the moment, and that he had to process the full horror of his actions without a scrap of protection or ignorance to numb it.

Heaving in air through his nose, he triple-checked Peter's bare chest was still rising and falling, then couldn't help but eye the dark wetness that swiped across his forehead like a single brushstroke, pooled in a puddle below his head and dyed the towel, the table, Peter's hair, neck and shoulders...

_Forgive me._

Sylar couldn't believe what he was actually doing – which might have made it easier because it was so insane that it couldn't possibly process. He was so terrified that he couldn't even think to stop anymore. He was so beyond appalled that his whole body was running on autopilot without him. Nauseated, he watched his own hands work before Peter could heal, and gingerly pull away the top of the man's head.

Holy shit.

For a long second Sylar could only stare, transfixed by the wrongness of intruding upon Peter's tender, exposed cerebrum in all its glory. Air hit the organ for the very first time, a baby forced out of its shell when it wasn't ready, when it couldn't protest or consent or defend itself in the slightest –

Sylar's breath escaped him in a shudder before he could stop it. He set down the loose part of Peter's skull ( _Peter's skull!_ ) on the tray beside him where it would be safe, before stumbling free from his squeaking chair and staggering into the wall.

He doubled over, absolutely expecting to throw up. But it wasn't the contents of his stomach that escaped him.

Of every reaction Sylar The Soulless Devil had feared he'd experience the next time he revealed a brain, crying had never come to mind. Yet now his eyes burned and streamed and he could barely catch a breath, moaning and sobbing in soul-rendering, painful bursts that consumed his muscles as if he really _were_ vomiting. Sylar leaned all his weight into dirty, cool tiles, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow to try and muffle the sounds he was making. Still, they rebounded around this decrepit pit of a room.

Weak with remorse for everything he'd ever done, every person he'd ever murdered in this manner, no way could Sylar return to his post. Not yet. Definitely not yet. Instead he just slumped here, hiding, alone in the dark with his face in his sleeve and nothing but a living nightmare to keep him company.

He had just destroyed his only friend. Ripped him open, defiled his body and made him bleed once again. He'd ruined him like everyone else who'd dared get too close to the monster. Everyone else who'd mattered.

No. Focus. _Focus._ He needs you. It's the right thing to do. It _is_...! But only if it's done right...

Sylar's breath was ragged, punctured only with little gasps of effort as he tried to pull himself together. His lungs ached with contractions and he could barely see past hot tears that coursed down his face in rivers, but that didn't seem to matter when it came to processing the ghastly sight that _he_ had made of the once handsome man laid out before him.

He worked hard to remind himself this was different than the other times. Because Peter had repeatedly asked for this torture. Over and over, in his words, in his face, in his touch and even the way he moved. He hadn't listened to reason, because reason was a word that had never existed in his psyche. He hadn't backed down, because Peter didn't know the concept of giving up a cause that simply screamed insanity. Insanity for himself, and insanity for the sucker who had been lumped into it with him.

The only reason Sylar stayed, the only reason he didn't make a run for it instead of suffering through this trauma? Was that he cared too much. Despite it all, he cared too much about this fucking selfish fucking stupid son of a bitch who just so happened to deserve his help.

*

Nobody had come looking. The corridor was as dark and empty and eerie as always, which Emma supposed must be a good thing, even if it didn't really feel like it.

She wondered what was taking so long. Maybe she should have asked _how_ Sylar had intended to fix Peter's abilities? It wasn't like anyone upstairs would notice she was missing or anything, but standing out here by herself was not the nicest task Emma had undertaken in her life.

Still, she stuck to her post, pacing on the spot slightly and crossing her arms tight against the chill and darkness. Darkness that, she suddenly noticed, had been broken by a flare that hadn't been there a second ago.

Emma jolted and rushed to the door she was guarding, before recalling Peter's warning. Don't come in no matter what. So what else could she do but just stand there, watching glowing tendrils of colour squeeze through the edge of the door like ribbons, before they filtered into the corridor like smoke.

Hypnotized, it wasn't the design of the sounds that upset her, but that they existed at all. The way they danced, the rhythm to the change in colours that bled through the air like a mournful song... Emma hadn't worked in a hospital for almost a year with this power without getting to know the hues of someone crying. Silently, she observed the noises weep, suffer, curl in on themselves for comfort which they didn't receive...

And suddenly she felt horribly like she was intruding. She didn't want to know what was happening in there. She could guess, but chose not to. She wanted to go in and make sure everything was okay – maybe she could help if it wasn't? But Peter had said not to and she didn't want to betray his trust.

Did he know this would happen then? Was it _supposed_ to happen? Emma had no clue, so she chose just to trust her old friend and the kindness in his eyes, and tried to ignore the sounds floating in the air. It was impossible though, when they eclipsed everything else in the surrounding blackness.

*

The damage was worse than he had pictured it.

Going by touch alone, the knot Arthur Petrelli had jammed in the way of Peter's abilities had felt bigger than it actually was. But now that he could see the thing as well as feel for it, Sylar discovered also that it was far more intricate than he had first deduced. The man-made mental barrier in the mind of his patient was wedged tightly in place, scarred over on both sides by the many times the guy had clawed at it while attempting to break through. Oh, Peter...

Shifting in his chair, Sylar had already lost track of time. He sniffed and cleared his throat not for the first time, wiping at his slowing flow of tears in order to focus better on his work. He used his sleeve this time, having learned the hard way that his gloves were coated in red as if he'd just painted a setting sun with his hands. Peter's blood (sadly not a foreign substance) was hot on his skin, dripping down his forearms and pooling in Sylar's rolled up sleeves, despite his best efforts. He had stopped noticing long ago in favour of the task at hand.

He squirmed in his seat and resumed his work, leaning in close and working with the thinnest fibers of telekinesis he could muster. The heat and texture of the brain at his fingertips wasn't dulled at all by the addition of gloves, and a fresh crest of repulsion rolled through him again.

At least everything about this act couldn't have been more different to how Sylar remembered it being in the past. The victim's screams fading out; the sticky, warm blood coating his hands a mere irritation; hunger and excitement and curiosity and desperation fueling him on to eagerly steal abilities and discard the person afterward...

The contrast was so stark that this almost felt like Sylar's first time all over again. Everything was new although he had done it so many times before he'd lost count.

Which meant he had no excuse to hold back when he knew exactly how to put the shattered walls of his friend back together. To help him, heal him, rid him of the pain that Sylar could feel had stained far outside its realms like a festering bruise that hadn't faded in all these years.

Sylar was careful with him. He caressed the disfigured site of the empath's pain with the lightness of touch that came from tending to irreplaceable mechanisms all his life. Because this didn't have to be that different from a one-of-a-kind antique wristwatch, really. He didn't rush, but was gentle as he unlaced delicate ribbons of scar tissue with enviable grace. He treated his friend's cerebrum with more respect than the dozens he'd tended to over his lifetime combined.

How many times had Sylar wished to get a good look inside the infuriatingly unpredictable mind of Peter Petrelli? To see how he worked and what made him the way that he was? He regretted such thoughts now, of course.

Stealing a power was so much easier than teasing them free from restraints, Sylar had quickly discovered. Abilities had always just been waiting for him in the past, ripe for the picking and easy to access once the top of the skull was removed. But here (because of course it had to be difficult when Peter was involved), Sylar was being resisted with a stubbornness the Petrellis would be proud of, if they knew.

The challenge helped him, though. He clung to it – literally – chasing the prize with so much concentration that he didn't have time to step back and see the full picture: where he was, what he was doing, who's skull he currently had both hands inside.

He never stopped working. He never got impatient. He never gave in and started ripping his way through the barrier instead, because this was precious and crucial and if Gabriel Gray had ever been good at one thing in his life, it was understanding how things worked and then speaking their language. And so that's what he did.

He whispered to the problem, earned its trust and crooned back remedies and encouragements in hopes of making things better. He sang the silent song that nobody would ever hear, working tirelessly to complete everything within his power to repair Peter's wound at long last. To set him free.

...Almost... _so_ close... just a little more... _there._

Finally, Sylar paused. He gasped. Then just blinked at his handiwork, suddenly taken off guard to realise there was nothing left for him to do. That was it? He'd finished? Was it really possible he'd just liberated his friend and survived the entire procedure without losing his mind in blood and brains and greed for power...?

The first touch of elation lifted the corners of Sylar's lips, shy and unsure at first, as he triple checked all was done as need be. Peter would be so pleased with him. He ripped off the soiled gloves and grabbed himself a towel with shaking hands, wiping streaks in the blood on his arms before carefully reattaching the top of the sleeping man's head. He watched the incision in Peter's skin begin to knit itself back together, then jumped to his feet and hurried to remove the drip from his patient's arm.

While Peter roused, Sylar took a moment for himself. Just a handful of seconds to get a handle on his racing heart and bask in the ringing lack of his downfall.

He almost didn't want to believe it yet, because it seemed far too good to be true. Far too easy. All that worrying had been for nothing?! What the hell? Where were the ghosts and demons that should appear to drag him back into the shadows; the angry mob with their pitchforks and damning words; or even his worst fears personified in the form of his own sneering reflection...?

Gone. All gone.

*

Peter didn't want to wake up. He was comfortable here. He tried to resist the sounds that pierced his protective bubble, and the dizzying lurch that accompanied the shake to his shoulders, but once consciousness had him in its clutches it was impossible to get free.

He squirmed, moaning in complaint. Fluttered his eyelids against the blinding bright light that stabbed him in the corneas. Then someone's head shielded him from it: a man. A familiar man. He was beaming down upon Peter for some reason, one that evaded him for too long as he tried to chase it around his memories.

Large hands slipped from his shoulders to hold his back, and Peter let them pull him up until he was leaning on his elbow. Rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, he tried to filter everything through the clearing fog and into focus.

*

“Wh-wha...?” Peter mumbled, acting as if he'd just been roused from a hundred year nap. Sylar just barely managed not to laugh at the childish expression on his face. He couldn't wait to see it change...

“I said I think I did it!” It must have been the fifth or sixth time he'd said those words, but only now did they seem to finally settle in Peter's head. The man squinted around himself at his sordid surroundings, as if surprised to see he wasn't being greeted by fluffy pillows and the beautiful blush of sunrise. And then recollection clonked into place in those big hazel eyes, and it was the most wondrous sight to witness.

“You _did_...?” He gasped, seemingly beyond caring about the blood that covered a good portion of his head and shoulders, because this was so much more important than that.

Pride swelled up inside Sylar at the same time a smile of delight spread across the features of the other man, one that made the whole ordeal of messing inside his brain worth it. Peter lifted his hand to muffle a laugh, gazing over it at Sylar as if he'd just solved the meaning of all life on Earth. And y'know what? Sylar wasn't going to correct him.

“Try something!” He prompted, relenting to a mighty grin of his own.

He watched his companion intently, scooping up every precious facet of this experience to remember it perfectly later. Because this was _his_ achievement as well as Peter's. It was the perfect 'fuck you' to everyone who ever said he couldn't do it and wasn't capable of reforming. It was Sylar's big moment to stand atop the mighty mountain of his doubts, built so high over a lifetime of sins that he could touch the clouds if he wanted, and be able to look right down the height of the thing with the confidence to know he'd conquered it. For he had just faced his biggest fear and lived to tell the tale.

It hadn't been holding off the East River for the world to see, or saving Emma back at the Sullivan Brothers carnival that had done it – or even finally clawing his way through the wall of his eight year prison! No. It was this, right here, when the last rusted chains keeping Sylar tethered to his past self broke free.

*

Still a little drowsy, numb with hope, Peter struggled to sit up. He chose to ignore the sickening feeling of blood dripping down his spine. It barely registered compared to the boundless rush of adrenaline that flooded his system, making him clumsy in his movements.

He swung his legs off the side of the table and swept his hair back out of his eyes. Had Sylar _really_ just...? How could something so huge have transpired in the seconds it felt between falling asleep and waking again? It was ridiculous!

Yet... Peter was _sure_ he could feel that something was different inside him.

Even before he lifted both hands up before his face, he thought he could sense the fresh streak of colour that coursed through his veins now that a channel had been opened. He could practically taste it, the potential that flowed through his every nerve ending to his fingertips, prickling the hairs on his arms on the way as it built and built on the way to freedom! He held his breath and waited to see it come true right before his eyes... but nothing happened.

...No... Peter glanced up at Sylar, who just gave him a smiling nod of encouragement.

But what if he couldn't do it? What if Peter had been the problem all along? What if he was broken forever, and he'd just put his friend through his worst nightmare for nothing...? Sorrow and regret threatened to drown out the wonderful tingle of the new feeling, but Peter clung on stubbornly to the confidence that Sylar was pouring down upon him.

Taking a few deep breaths, he honed in his concentration once more. He closed his eyes and let his body take over, let his guards slip from his shoulders and pool around his ankles while willing something to happen, letting things proceed as they wanted without forcing it back into hiding...

His eyes snapped open at the exact same time both men exclaimed aloud. Then they stared, transfixed, at the blue fire that now encased Peter's left hand. Holy fuck.

Stunned, the empath rejoiced in the velveteen lure of his power, twisting his hand and toying with indigo flames, letting them lick over his fingers with a warmth that stemmed right from the core of his being. He laughed again, drawing courage from the joy in Sylar's smile and eyes: two flickering drops of sapphire blue that reached right back into him.

It came naturally after that. Lost for words, Peter stretched out his right hand next, biting his lip in effort. It only took a second for him to reconsider the channel of energy, and he extinguished the flames in his other hand in order to summon a towel from Sylar's neat pile of them. Ha!

“Oh my g... D-did you see that?!” He gushed stupidly, distractedly wiping blood from his neck and shoulders.

Sylar didn't reply, his smile only deepening as his eyes roved over Peter from head to toe. The motion tickled, as if he were somehow able to track the transformation that rushed around Peter like a tornado, getting stronger with every beat of his heart. It was all coming back to him in phases. First the simple fact of it, then the true epiphany, then the symptoms lagging along in last place. Peter was just a helpless vessel being decorated from within, tidied at the edges and welded back together over the patches that had tried their best to do the job for so long.

He reveled in seeing the world through its new filter: when every detail was that little bit sharper, when every shine shone a little bit brighter. He looked around himself in wonder, as if a blindfold he hadn't even known he'd been wearing for years had been lifted and he could finally _see_ again; he'd forgotten that the spectrum hadn't always been so dull, but now that he had been gifted with the colours he'd used to take for granted he recognised them at once; the sensation of his past swam through his entire soul like the scent of a lost relative's cooking, casting him back in time to when things had been simpler, when he had been younger, when he had been different.

Tears rose, unbidden and unshed, to Peter's eyes. He couldn't dream of tackling the sudden swarm of emotion that took him hostage, so he didn't even bother. The change within him was spinning so fast that it was difficult to catch all at once, but he supposed there was plenty of time for that later. He had the rest of forever to work this thing out, after all!

As for right now? His throat constricted when he really _looked_ at Sylar for the first time since waking. Now, he really saw the drying blood stains on his arms, the fading tear tracks on his face. Peter couldn't imagine what this person had just gone through for him, simply because he'd asked him to.

“You... you fixed me.” He croaked, cut so deep with gratitide he couldn't even find his voice.

*

The recovering villain suddenly didn't even know what to do with himself. He could only watch as things he had never noticed before clicked into place within Peter, as his skin flushed pink and his face illuminated with the same euphoria as it had when he'd first thrown himself off a building in hopes he could fly.

Sylar had only met the man a few times before his abilities had been broken. He hadn't known him enough to really notice the difference at the time but it was unmistakable now, in all the right ways. And Sylar was responsible for that.

Peter gifted him the biggest smile he'd seen on that face in months. “Thank you!” He whispered. Before Sylar could muster up a gracious reply, the little man dropped the towel down beside him, hopped off the operating table and practically scooped him up off the floor with both arms.

“Hey!” Sylar squeaked out an undignified giggle that instantly made him cringe, but not for too long. Peter laughed again in the crook of Sylar's neck, without one shade of his usual self-consciousness, and that sold him.

Despite the blood still dripping from Peter's hair and down his indecently bare skin, Sylar put two hands on the man's back and held him in close. He was okay. They were _both_ okay. Peter was no longer being dissected, and Sylar was no longer the one doing the dissecting. He couldn't believe he'd actually just done that. Had it even happened at all? How could it seem so long ago already...?

“Thank you! Thank you! God, I don't even know what else to say!” Peter confessed, wrapped around Sylar so tightly they swayed on the spot.

Blushing like an idiot, Sylar was quite pleased that at least the other guy couldn't see his face right now. “You could start by promising to wash a dish every once in a while.” He supplied to a fresh few hiccups of mirth.

For the first time since the ambulances, Sylar allowed himself to relax in Peter's touch. He'd felt so unworthy of it the past few days. But he didn't feel that way anymore. Not now he'd carried both himself and this extremely grateful, touchy-feely creature through the eye of the storm and out the other side.

*

Peter could feel every one of his old abilities safe and sound in their place, tucked away as if nothing had ever changed since the last time he'd used them. It was impossible, yet it was real. And now he had the freedom to do whatever the fuck he liked with them! He felt like a kid who'd just uncovered a trunk of his old favourite toys, desperate to get stuck in and familiarise himself with them all over again, even stay up all night playing if he wanted to!

The only problem was deciding on what to do first. Go for an invisible stroll down the street? Fly all over the city with regenerating stamina, then _teleport_ home after?! There were so many possibilities to choose from, and Peter couldn't get his mind around any of them!

He wasn't surprised that it had worked, per se, because he'd absolutely had faith in his friend to live up to his word and beyond. It was just difficult to process the very vivid realisation that, yes, really, _finally_... Peter had been put right. Thanks to Sylar.

He pulled back with both hands trembling on the taller man's shoulders. “I _knew_ you could do it.” He couldn't stop touching his friend or stop smiling for the life of him, even though concern was definitely present in his mind. He was pretty sure it was floating around in there somewhere. “How did it go? Are you okay?”

For a second Sylar avoided Peter's eye contact. Then he composed himself, oh-so-casually running a hand through his hair. Then wincing at the blood on it. “Fine. It was boring. You have a nice brain but I'm not gonna lie, it's not the most advanced I've ever seen.”

The hint of pink around his eyes told a different story to the unaffected air he was trying to exude, but it was one Peter wasn't going to pry into if Sylar didn't want him to. At the very least, after everything the man had just done for him, Peter owed him that.

So he just took the guy's (now apparently deemed contaminated) hand and nestled into his arms again. Peter held his friend close, putting everything that he couldn't express through words into the gesture. He didn't care that Sylar was generally not a cuddly person, or that he might be sick of Peter's many recent affections. He needed to give them anyway.

Sylar hugged him back, through a touch of shyness that was tangible in the angles of his body. Peter's cheeks were beginning to hurt from all this smiling, but it was hardly worth complaining about. “Thank you. Really. I mean it.”

It was obscene to think that this was the first time in Peter's whole life that he could remember someone actually helping him with something he personally wanted for himself. He was so used to being brushed off, or promised then forgotten about, that he had no idea how to handle the alternative. If this wasn't what he was supposed to do then Peter didn't even care, because it felt right enough for him.

*

“Are you planning on keeping me here all evening? Or can we finally leave this place?”

Sylar blatantly shrugged off the heaps of praise Peter was raining down upon him. He didn't know how to deal with the way it made him feel – it was different than when he'd agreed to help Emma and the Carnival once upon a time, different even than all the times he'd helped Peter help _other_ people. Because this didn't involve anyone else but the two of them.

Chuckling, the empath unlatched himself from the taller man, devouring his face with those eyes of his. “Sorry. You're right. Let's get outta here.” He paused again though, just long enough to cup the side of Sylar's neck in his palm. One last, lingering thank you that burned its way into Sylar's skin.

“You're such a sap, Petrelli.” He scoffed and pulled free, turning his back with a smile. The mess of the operation wasn't going to clean itself, after all, and if he stayed where he was there was the danger of Sylar turning into an even bigger sap than the other guy.

“Yeah, don't I know it.” Peter chuckled, picking up his discarded, bloodstained towel as if it could do any more good than it already hadn't.

*

Peter cleaned himself up as best he could, while Sylar undertook the gruesome task of mopping up what Peter felt was a shit ton of his blood. They righted the place as much as possible, having no running water, only a limited supply of towels and one crappy light bulb to see by. Peter had to admit that Sylar had been right in demanding they didn't do this back at the apartment. It was not pleasant. But they couldn't very well invite Emma back in here when it looked like the site of a massacre, after all, and the sooner they got finished the sooner they could head home.

No, not home! Out into the city to test these not-really-new-but-still-new powers! Peter was buzzing already, so excited he was actually getting light headed. He couldn't possibly wait until later and so touched over his abilities repeatedly, unable to stop worrying them like a loose tooth, checking to see each one was still where it should be.

Lost in the sensations, Peter recovered his t-shirt from the trolley (thankfully void of any red stains), and pulled it on. Head buried in the fabric, he startled when Sylar hissed something inarticulate in his ear.

*

“ _What?_ ”

“What?” Sylar responded, straightening with a packed medical bag full of obscene looking towels that the world had better hope it never saw. He draped the bag over his shoulder and turned to see Peter's tousled head pop out the top of his t-shirt, followed by a wary look.

“Did... didn't you just?” He looked around the room, righting his clothing with one hand and pointing to his ear with the other. Sylar had no clue what that meant.

“Did I just what? Earn myself a lifetime of bragging rights? You'd better believe it –”

“Shh!” Peter rudely cut him off by putting a finger to his lips. “Can't you hear that?” He whispered, eyes casting wildly around the dark recesses of the theatre. Great. As if the place wasn't spooky enough as it was.

“What is it?” He asked, dropping the restricting weight of the bag back onto the floor – the world could take its chances with it after all.

But then the newly-restored empath froze, staring directly at the door back into the corridor. Suddenly Sylar could sense static electricity in the air that hadn't been there a moment ago. And for a split second he thought he saw his friend flicker in and out of sight, before a rogue burst of sparks crackled over his skin.

Only then did he realise that something was very wrong.

“Voices.”

All at once Sylar was very aware of Peter's abilities flexing awake from their shared slumber, like a restless swarm of birds rustling their wings all at once. The man turned frightened eyes back to Sylar, just as his short-lived sense of fulfillment melted out of his grasp, leaving only a cold sweat in its wake.

“They've found us.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading my story, and for your patience - I can never say it enough <3<3 I'm sooo excited for this next chunk of plot to kick off, and I can't wait to share it with you guys! Brace yourselves for more action, more angst, and a lot of emotions in the near future... X) Originally I wanted to fit the events of this chapter and next chapter into one, so you could read it all at once, but to nobody's surprise the story just got away from me hehe ^.^
> 
> Sylar working in Peter's brain was a scene I've had planned for longer than the idea for the whole story (it's also in the trailer), and it was very important to me to recreate the scene on the page as I've had it in my mind for so long. I guess all I can do is try my best and hope it worked, huh? Please let me know what you thought X)
> 
> Here's the link to my trailer, in case you want to take another peek: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9326693


	22. Mr Do-Gooder

“What?” Sylar croaked, as if hoping he'd misheard.

“Someone's coming.”

“Bennet?”

“I... I'm not sure...” Like someone had punched a mirror, the golden feeling of having Peter's abilities restored shattered into a million pieces by his scuffed boots. Suddenly he didn't feel unburdened and free anymore. Frozen to the spot, he fumbled to reclaim his grasp on telepathy.

It took a moment for him to re-locate the correct ability, then it encased his senses with only a little persuasion. His awareness expanded far beyond the thumping of two panicked hearts and Emma's soft breathing from outside; it slinked under the door of the abandoned operating theatre and stretched away along the closed down corridors of the hospital. He was a little rusty, but it didn't take long to channel out the distant ruckus of the wards and the vibrating hum of the air conditioning all around until he located the same whispering voices from before.

The counting of footsteps marching down the stairs. The memorising of instructions between a handful of people. A team creeping down to this location with the intention of an ambush.

“Whoever it is, I don't plan on waiting here for them to find us.” Sylar stated.

Shaken out of concentration by his companion's authoritive tone, the ability slipped from Peter's fingers and he failed to catch it before it was gone. Reeling, he nodded just because Sylar was the sensible one and he always knew what to do.

But then the other man's plan really hit him. And while, yes, it did sound like the smart thing to do (not to mention the thing that they usually did round about now) ...this time it ruffled Peter's feathers the wrong way.

*

The empath zoned back into Sylar with a determined frown gracing his face. Oh no.

He tried to shut down the crazy plan he knew was coming. “Peter, I don't think -”

“But aren't you tired of always running away?” Peter blurted. His cheeks were still flushed from earlier, his eyes still bright with newfound confidence. “We don't have to let them win anymore! We could fight!”

Distantly, alarm bells started to chime in the watchmaker's head. He tried to sound reasonable, to sound as un-controlling as possible so he wouldn't trigger the ingrained Petrelli instincts to only push against rationale. “Trust me, you're not ready for that yet. You need time to get used to your abilities first, you can't just break them all out at once – it could be dangerous.”

*

The first reaction that possessed Peter was insult. Then irritation. Then defensiveness. Until finally, against everything he wanted to be true, along came the first touch of resignation.

Although apprehension did inevitably accompany the thought of yet another Renautas attack, this time they didn't _have_ to flee with their tails between their legs. Peter now had the means to confront his enemies! This time he was strong enough to stand his ground! He could _win!_

A dozen restless abilities were now flanking this man like his own personal army. They complained of neglect, they jostled each other for priority and impatiently pressed upon the inside of his skull. They wanted to stretch themselves free of their confines and he wanted to let them do it, he wanted to end this toxic relationship between hunter and pray once and for all! But Sylar was right: there was no telling how dangerous that could be.

Just as Peter opened his mouth in fading hopes of further arguing his piece, the door to the corridor squealed open on rusted hinges.

Shit, in just these last few moments he had totally forgotten about Emma! Yet as soon as he set eyes on her hurrying into the theatre the building pressure inside his head began to stabilize. No way would he jeopardise her safety just to prove a point.

*

“I'm, I'm sorry but you said to say if I saw anything...”

Emma's explanation trailed off when her eyes swarmed over the leftover blood on the operating table. Then the remnants lingering on Peter and still drying on Sylar. It wouldn't take her long to put all the pieces together, and the watchmaker's gut flipped at the reminder of what he'd just done.

“No, no, it's okay, we already know.” Peter gushed, snapping out of fight mode and crossing instantly to Emma, like a moth to the flame. Sylar couldn't really blame him this time, though.

He welcomed anything to ease her expression, one that hadn't been nearly as uneasy at the thought of intruders as it did at what Sylar might have just done to her friend. He didn't want to know what horrors she was imagining he'd inflicted upon Peter, but surely none could possibly come close to the truth. A lingering shiver traced Sylar's spine at the memory of the exposed brain at his fingertips. Thank god that was over with.

When the empath reached Emma's side he wrapped a protective arm her, but the words he spoke were for Sylar's peace of mind more than hers. “We're getting outta here.” He said affirmitively, all trace of his previous fight plan gone. “Hold onto me.”

Sylar hoped his gratitide showed on his face. Getting his way without one hell of a sales pitch was always a luxury. He was too relieved by Peter's cooperation to waste time dwelling on the fluttering concerns that still hovered at the outskirts of his mind.

Hushed noises in the corridor finally reached Sylar's ears. He crossed to Peter and accepted the hold around his back, awaiting the lurch of teleportation to whisk him away. Maybe these powers really _would_ be worth all the effort to unlock them after all?

Accidentally, he locked eyes with Emma, tucked in close at Peter's other side. He told himself it was just the awkwardness of this Wizard of Oz-style embrace that made him cringe from her all-knowing gaze much too quickly. Emma, meanwhile, wasn't deterred. She was intent, it seemed, on making Sylar self-conscious of everything and anything he was. It was almost as if she somehow knew the ordeal he had just been through, how vulnerable he had let himself become. This was exactly why he'd wanted _privacy_ in the first place.

He busied himself by looking down at Peter, watching the crease to the guy's brow and the set to his jaw as he tried so hard to travel through space just in the nick of time...!

But nothing happened. They didn't jump across the city in the blink of an eye. They didn't move at all. And that was the moment when those whispering touches of concern began to make sense to Sylar.

*

Peter hurried to unlatch the right ability of out many, but alarm had ripped away the exhilaration that followed the success of Sylar's operation. Instead he was left clumsy, and the more he chased after his goal the more it evaded him. Damn it!

“Peter?” Emma asked. “What's wrong?”

He opened his eyes hopefully, only to be greeted by the same, dank operating theatre instead of the wood-paneled walls and silk curtains of Charles Devaux's living room. No! No! He grunted through his teeth, attempting again to carry his friends away to safety. But no matter what he tried, he just couldn't get it right. It was as much good as failing to strike a match with shaking hands.

“It – it's not working...”

“What?”

“I can't do anything!”

“Your abilites...?”

Now that Peter had plunged a hand into the immense well of his powers with the intention of actually _using_ one, perspective began to creep over him. He took a moment to really notice how precariously his abilities were stacked up, how delicately they were balanced now that the curtain had been pulled aside. He'd forgotten what it was like after only having to look after one at a time for so long. Now, responsibility towered over him until he started to feel dizzy, until he lost his tentative hold on his powers one by one like dropping a handful of marbles. Oh god.

The sensation of vertigo started seeping in. Peter's skin crawled with energy that he didn't know how to channel into a useful function. He couldn't balance the rest of his abilities with one hand and handle time travel with the other, because too much was happening at once and he couldn't even remember how he'd used to multi-task the first time around...!

No! He was supposed to be capable now! Strong! The whole point of restoring his powers was to _avoid_ being a burden ever again! Yet undeterred stage fright ripped every scrap of competence from Peter's grasp until, despite his father's blockade finally being lifted from his mind, he felt more powerless now than he ever had before.

Fear. Anger. Hopelessness. They consumed Peter at once. You'd think it would be enough, but even that didn't ease this self-deprecating man's shame of looking into two expectant faces and having to admit his thousandth failure aloud.

“I... I can't do it.”

*

It suddenly didn't matter that an ambush was only seconds away from where Peter, Sylar and Emma were trapped. Or at least, it didn't matter to the watchmaker's brain, so consumed as it was by too many thoughts that were spinning themselves into a whirlwind.

He couldn't argue with Peter. He wished he could. But he knew it was true. Somehow, something had gone wrong... The mechanic ticking of thought tuned out everything else in a blur of white noise; a moment of total clarity that raced to connect the dots at lightspeed...

Only for it to be rudely interrupted before it could form into a coherent thought. Sylar was too swept up in his own head to prepare any kind of defense, and then suddenly the trio were forced to break apart when a conflicting procession of barked orders and shuffling feet descended upon them.

“DON'T MOVE!”

“Get your hands in the air!”

“STEP AWAY FROM THE HOSTAGE!”

“It's them!”

“My god... all that blood...”

The instinct to fight might have prevailed through the haze, had Sylar not been beaten to the punch.

He felt the telltale gust of power whoosh past him, billowing his hair and harmlessly tugging at his clothes. Then a dozen enemy troops were blasted backward across the room with all the breath knocked out of them.

*

Emma couldn't say or do anything. She was too overwhelmed by the angry bursts of colour that swept around the room like fire. She was shaking, locked in place and almost able to actually hear her own heartbeat at the pace it was bouncing around her rib cage.

Playing in mute, it seemed as if time had somehow slowed to a crawl. Everything was moving as if underwater, yet Emma couldn't do a thing to intervene. Eric Doyle might as well have been here once again keeping her captive, for all the good she did.

Then all at once everything stopped. Everything was still. Dark. And only the odd, rising tendril coloured with hues of surprise peppered the room.

*

As the dust settled, Sylar gaped at the mess of assailants littered across the ground. Noah Bennet was not among them, nor were any Renautas logos or weaponry. So who were these idiots who had just knowingly crashed in on wanted fugitives...?!

It didn't really matter, though. What did was that they had been relatively innocent, well-intentioned, deluded. And severely outmatched to deserve such treatment.

Remorse kicked in then, and for a wild moment Sylar thought _he_ was somehow responsible for attacking them. But then, with a jolt in his gut, he remembered the reason he was even here in the first place.

*

Chest heaving, Peter couldn't tear his gaze from his hands. Woah.

They looked just the same as always, but he could feel a pulsing strength trickling away, stroking over his palms like the tip of a feather. This was interspersed with an occasional rogue flicker of electricity, sparks that jumped out at him until he somehow condensed them into just a sickly glimmer below the surface of his skin.

He hadn't meant to do it. It was an accident. Instinct. He hadn't even called on telekinesis before it rose to protect him as if on its own! Even now, the unseen force lingered within reach, suddenly far too easily accessed if he dared to think upon it. ...Had it used to be that way? He couldn't remember.

Under Emma and Sylar's scrutinous gazes, Peter dropped his hands and tuned into his groaning, strewn out victims for the first time. Yes, he was still reeling from his epic failure at teleportation, and his skull was pounding as if head rush was refusing to fully fade, but it wasn't that which made the scene take a while to fully make sense to him.

He knew these people.

Not all by name, but through the fog clouding up his senses he recognised the perpetually purple face of the man who had nodded him into work every day and nodded him out every night, and the red haired woman who had patrolled the grounds and almost caught him flying more than once. Wait, what? He had been so set on anticipating the usual Renautas bullshit that it took a moment to realise that, no, these people hadn't quit their jobs at the hospital and signed their souls over to the Company. And that maybe the godforsaken corporation didn't have anything to do with this at all.

Instantly, all defensiveness fled from Peter and he felt even worse.

He had no desire to further fight or hurt this team. They were just security guards. Doing their part to try and keep the hospital safe from potentially dangerous fugitives. But even that posed a harrowing question: how had they even found them?

“What the hell was that?”

Peter turned his attention to Sylar with a jolt, unable not to squirm on the spot like a child who knew he'd done wrong.

*

Sylar couldn't help but squint at his friend with no small amount of accusation. Suddenly Peter Petrelli – Mr Do-Gooder who would sacrifice his life instead of hurting others – was just okay with abusing his new powers so violently? A lecture formed on his tongue as soon as the initial shock waned, but the longer Sylar looked at his friend the more clear it became that _he_ had no clue what had happened either.

Peter didn't reply, but he didn't need to when the answer was crystal clear on his face. He looked shaken by his actions; his breathing deep and rapid. But Sylar didn't even need to see him to feel the very air shimmering around the little man, misting from his skin with the force of unseen, pent up power.

Those alarm bells chimed ever louder, echoing as if from the far end of a tunnel. Sylar did not want to know what they alluded to.

*

There was no way for Peter to mask his accidental outburst now, but that didn't stop him from at least trying to pretend he hadn't fucked up within minutes of supposedly being made capable. When his two friends crossed fallen, stunned security guards to reach his side once again, Peter back-kicked his doubts and made himself focus on the way ahead for now.

“Are you alright?” He asked Emma when she reached him, accepting a shaken nod from the woman in response. When Sylar got close enough Peter didn't linger for more than a reassuring pat on the arm. The watchmaker didn't call him out again for losing control, and for that Peter was grateful. But he could feel a telltale knowingness that he wished he knew how to evade radiating from the taller man, and he dreaded the subsequent talking-to he was bound to get back at home.

Peter didn't look at the guards who he had accidentally hurt (but of course, the guilt would be stored to brood over later). Even if it looked like he wouldn't be soaring home happily through the sky after all, he still needed to get out of this cesspit of a theatre. The chill, the grime and even the smell of the place were making him feel ill, and it certainly wasn't helping the growing buzz of power that refused to settle back in its place within him.

Sylar cleared his throat. “Okay... c'mon. Before they get up.” Peter conceded to the push on his back, ready to flat-out run to the exit if need be, only Emma didn't budge when he reached back for her. “Emma?” Peter asked, stopping in his tracks, confused. “What're you doing? We have to go -”

“I can't leave with you, Peter.”

*

Emma wished she didn't feel so bad to see the concern flare up on Peter's face. But what did he expect? That she would leave her job and go on the run with him and Sylar? Join the team and fight injustice in the streets like they did? The notion was sweet, even though it was the last thing Emma had planned for her future. No, she had done her part in assisting the return of Peter's abilities, and that felt like enough to go on.

“I'll hold them off here.” She insisted.

Maybe she had some serious talking to do after this, but the truth of the matter was that she didn't know anything anyway. She hadn't done much here, either. And in the eyes of these half-conscious security guards, she was only a helpless victim in the whole thing. As much as that enraged her, Emma knew she could at least wield it to her advantage for now in giving her friends a chance to escape.

Peter took a while to respond. Sad, hazel eyes roved over her face, and she remembered how happy he had been to see her upstairs. The opposite could be said for just now. The younger man sighed, bit his lip in acceptance and touched a hand to Emma's arm. Careful, warm and reassuring, as always.

“I'm really sorry for dragging you into all this.” His mouth moved in such a way that she knew his words would be gentle. “I... I never wanted to cause any trouble.”

“That's all you ever do.” She smiled. Sylar's face twitched in agreement when Emma released a soft laugh. Luckily the two men couldn't see the colour of it, so revealing of her feelings in a way the sound alone was not. “But it's always for the right reason.”

Peter looked at her then exactly as he had after breaking her prized cello, knowing he had to leave when it was the last thing he wanted to do. Emma would never hold him back though, even if the security guards strewn over the floor weren't already stirring back to life. He was born to be mysterious and brave and to dive into danger over and over again, doing everything he possibly could to save everyone at once. Those were even the first things Emma had fallen for about him.

Somehow Peter was still beautiful with blood streaked over his face and drying in his hair. An air of tenderness that contradicted his lifestyle shone through his features as always, and kindness was etched into every plane of his face along with that genuine interest that made you feel like the most interesting person in the world when it was your turn for his attention.

Emma knew what she felt for this man. She also knew the thing they might once have had between them was gone. It was too late for that now, Peter had moved on with his life and Emma had survived just fine without him all this time. But somehow... somehow she got the feeling they might never meet again once he flew out that door and gave himself over to the fate of the world. It was what finally gave her the confidence. And she would always regret it if she didn't...

*

Just too late, Sylar saw what was coming. Though not before Emma took the plunge, stepped up, and captured Peter's lips in a kiss.

Sylar burned and averted his eyes, hunching in on himself. He tried not to listen, but it was impossible not to hear the surprised intake of breath from Peter or, a moment later, the quiet sound of the kiss breaking. For fuck's sake. Was now _really_ the time...? Left standing stupidly on the outskirts, Sylar scowled and said nothing as he let the other two have this heartfelt moment without him.

It was inevitable, he told himself. It was closure. It was always going to happen at some point, ever since Peter had burst all heroically and deluded into Sylar's mind prison to save the world for this woman. He had even seen it coming the moment they'd stepped into this room together. But that still didn't make it any less fucking unpleasant.

“Good luck.” He heard Emma say.

Meanwhile Peter could barely muster his voice at all. “Th-thanks. Thank you. You too.”

Sylar gave them what felt like more than enough time to say goodbye while running on a deadline, then chanced a look. Emma was smiling shyly at a scarlet and breathless Peter, the two of them just staring at each other like idiots. Sure, Sylar had only been the one to _actually_ save Emma's life at the carnival, and he had merely risked everything he'd painstakingly crafted over the better part of a _decade_ to gift Peter his dream today, but please – let them think each other was marvelous and forget all about him! It wasn't like _he_ deserved any praise or good luck wishes from either of them. It wasn't as if he didn't _deserve_ to be the third wheel in this scenario that wouldn't even have been possible without him.

Sylar wasn't sure if his expression was appropriate to be seen or not, but of course the pair chose that second to remember he existed. Peter only looked for a moment, otherwise too red-faced and flustered to do much more than hide behind his hair, but Emma turned to Sylar with a smile he half wished wasn't as genuine as it really was.

Damn her. Maybe she and Peter deserved each other after all.

*

Sylar raised a hand before Emma could even do anything. “I'll pass. Thanks though.”

This was one of the times she didn't quite understand the guy's sharp humour, but she was brimming with too much contentment to worry about it, or the touch of shadow bleeding into the colours of his voice. So she just watched him, watched Peter with a bright warmness in her chest, watched them regroup and traverse the operating theatre together towards the rest of the fight for freedom.

Despite the blood littered all over the scene, and these poor people who didn't deserve to get hurt like they had, and even the trouble Emma was likely to get into for helping two evo vigilantes, she didn't regret getting involved. It still felt like the right thing to do.

At the door, Peter hesitated. He looked back at Emma one last time. Her lips tingled in memory when his lifted into one of those small, crooked smiles he could pull off so well. She would miss those.

Then he was gone, leaving Emma alone to help the struggling security guards to their feet.

***

Beyond the operating theatre, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. Peter and Sylar ran through the labyrinthine web of corridors and stairwells with their senses on high alert, just in case. Occasionally they had no choice but to brave the more bustling parts of the hospital, but they managed to stick to empty corridors and abandoned wards for the most part.

Things seemed quiet, but that could easily just be to avoid a mass panic amongst patients and staff. Sylar doubted the “dangerous fugitives” had just been allowed to escape, especially after that last encounter had hardly helped their case. But they had a head start, at least.

The evos didn't speak while they fled; while Peter fought to produce the appropriate power one at a time and while Sylar patiently let him. The first time Peter phased them through a wall, he needed three attempts to ensure they didn't get stuck halfway. Sylar had felt nauseous ever since. They broke open locked doors and slipped through the structure of the building, both seemingly focused on the route ahead while, really, that couldn't be further from the truth.

Sylar seemed to float along on auto-pilot while an overwhelming firework display erupted inside him. Each one burst and clashed in a new shade of emotion: fear, regret, pride, trepidation, dread...

He was grateful for the clean escape because he was reeling far too much to be able to concentrate on complicated evasive manouvers. His feet hit the ground heavily but he could barely feel them. He could sense each movement from his companion, yet he couldn't look at him. He thumbed over and over a burning question, unusually wary of Peter: currently just a smouldering being of heat and energy at his side.

It was only when the pair tumbled out of a staircase at basement level and pelted down the long descent of another nondescript corridor that Sylar finally summoned the courage to speak, for the first time since they'd left Emma behind.

He had to start twice before his voice made it out, ragged and weak. “So... what was that back there?”

Peter's steps faltered for half a second before he only ran harder. Sweeping a hand through his swishing hair, he puffed out a sigh between laboured breaths. “I – I dunno she just... came at me. And I totally froze. I didn't even –”

“I meant with your abilities.”

“Oh.”

Dear God, the last thing Sylar needed right now was a play by play of the kiss, as if witnessing the thing hadn't been enough. The thought was even less appealing than yet _another_ desperate escape. Please – that was not what he wanted to talk about. Instead, it was the growing observation that each time Peter called upon a power it seemed to pain him further and took longer to extinguish. It hadn't escaped Sylar's attention, no matter that it seemed to have escaped Peter's.

*

Just the mention of his abilities killed the bashful butterflies in Peter's stomach. Instead, so many pockets of energy surged inside him with a new lease of life, pushing and shoving for attention now that they were being addressed.

It frightened him, if he was honest, to hold so much power again. Yes, it was amazing, and it was exactly what he'd wanted! However it was undeniably humbling, too, in a way he hadn't thought to anticipate.

Aftershocks of his outburst back in the theatre were yet to stop lingering in a reminder of his power. In promise. “I, uh...” He wanted to confide these thoughts to Sylar. He did. But that would mean admitting that he'd somehow done something wrong _again,_ not to mention throwing the entire point of the guy's grand gesture back in his face. So Peter just kept moving forward, just kept going, hunting for an escape from these nondescript, claustrophobic walls. “It was nothing. I'm just a little rusty, that's all.”

“Y'know, I think you should be careful with -”

“I'm _fine,_ Sylar!”

Peter snapped more viciously than he had intended, a river of sparks rolling down his arms just as goosebumps rolled down his spine. The anger startled him in flaring as if out of nowhere, but now that it had been stirred he backed it wholeheartedly. The following seconds rang out poignantly with only the sounds of panting breaths, ringing footsteps and the continuous fizzle of electricity that wouldn't desist from Peter's fingertips.

He knew he should have apologised, but the words got stuck in his throat.

Just as it sounded like Sylar was going to retort, luckily the former paramedic recognised the upcoming break in the corridor. With a lurch of his heart he took a left, picked up the pace, and phased himself and Sylar through double doors and into Mercy Height's ambulance bay.

The garage was strangely empty for this time of day. It was eerily unfamiliar, but Peter wasn't going to complain about the lack of witnesses.

A lone ambulance was parked in its spot; nobody scampered around the floor cleaning or restocking or transporting goods or patients; and the only sounds were of the bustling streets of New York city visible through open driveways in the far wall. Evo protests were apparently still going strong out there, but as long as Peter and Sylar could make it past they had a clean path home. Yes. Finally. Thank god.

*

Sylar was not a fan of this new attitude. Was this to be his reward for finally relenting to Peter's greatest desire? To be ignored, snapped at like he was talking nonsense, and then subjected to such an unspectacular, shameful escape...? But he sucked it up and behaved himself, for now. It was yet another facet of Peter's recent behavour that conspired to twist in his gut, and he wished he didn't have the instinct to know what it meant, but he did. Mostly.

He could taste it in the air. A rogue detail that shouldn't have been there but was. Peter couldn't teleport before; he hadn't meant to attack those guards, either; something was definitely off kilter somewhere. Sylar just didn't know what it was yet. He couldn't see it through the haze of adrenaline, but it was undeniable all the same.

It would be only too easy to freak out and drag Peter out of here as quickly as possible, but that would only make things worse. One of them had to be the responsible one, and if the tendrils of distress and discomfort currently furling off the guy meant anything, it definitely wasn't going to be Peter.

So Sylar silently followed his ally through the bright and airy garage, forcing himself not to wince at the guy's palpable aura. But he couldn't focus on that. The most important thing was getting out of here without encountering more trouble.

Besides, Peter could read minds now (a detail Sylar decided hadn't been thought through nearly enough beforehand), so he had to keep his thoughts moderated and inoffensive. He had to keep calm. Supportive. Even if a part of him had the urge to give this ungrateful cretin a good kick up the –

Suddenly, Peter stopped in his tracks. Sylar was so close behind that he almost crashed right into him. Quickly the former killer broke into a spout of mental backtracking, just in case... but when Peter turned around, the pain on his face wasn't directed _at_ Sylar, but past him.

Then a third voice echoed around the garage. “So it's true.”

*

Peter clenched his still flickering fists, standing his ground even though he was _this_ close to an escape. He made himself stare his accuser directly in the eyes even though it was painful to do so.

How many times had Peter lied to this man? How many times had he twisted the truth or omitted details to spare them from this exact exchange? But he could hardly deny it this time, when he was caught fleeing the scene of a crime with his powers all over the place.

He spoke quietly, his voice no competition for the flurry of thoughts currently bouncing around Hesam's head. “...Not all of it.”

Unspoken accusations were speared Peter's way, more of the same that had alerted him to his partner's presence in the first place. They hurt just as much again, if not more. He didn't mean to employ telepathy, and even if he had he couldn't keep his grip on it anyway. Hesam's thoughts faded in and out like a weak radio signal, but Peter didn't need them at all to recognise the way the Iranian was staring at him.

_...the hell d'you think you're playing at... defended you... with_ him _... I had to do it... I'm sorry, Pete..._

Peter hid his sparking hands from Hesam's line of sight, fighting to clear his throat. “What they're saying about us... it's not how it really happened. All those events, these _powers_ even – we've just been trying to help people.”

It was insane to actually be talking about this side of his life that he'd worked to hard to hide from Hesam for so long. Only in hopes of avoiding the hardened glare that was coming his way right now. “That's what I've been telling myself. But there's only so long I can believe that, Pete.”

There had still been a part of Peter, a naïve sliver of hope tucked away in a recess that had wanted to imagine Hesam would take it well. Surely, if nobody else did, the man who had witnessed him risk life and limb at work to save lives would see Peter was still just trying to do good?

But just like Claire, like Angela, like Noah and Matt, it seemed Hesam was against him too.

*

Oh, how Sylar suddenly missed Emma. Waiting awkwardly while her and Peter smooched it out might actually have been more favourable than standing here now, with freedom within sight on one side and a ton of emotional baggage on the other.

Honestly, Sylar had never much warmed to Hesam. True, he hadn't warmed to many people in his time, but this guy's arrogance and condescending eye had irked Sylar from the first time they'd met. There had always been unpleasant signals sent his way from the EMT, like somehow Hesam knew he should be wary of Sylar even though he shouldn't have had a clue. He'd always taken care to make him feel like an intruder the times he'dropped Peter off for a shift or met him afterward, and he wasn't holding back that same courtesy now.

Sylar may not have possessed the ability to read minds like Peter, but his knack for reading _people_ was as strong as ever. Within moments, he decoded the look on Hesam's face – the anger, the hurt, the guilt, the resignation of something he'd told himself was false being proved wrong. He had a nasty feeling, without another word being said, that he now understood the hasty ambush back at the operating theatre. Son of a bitch.

It wasn't Sylar's place to put Hesam in _his_ place. Even though he wanted to growl and make him pay for being the one to throw the spanner in the works when everything had just been going so well...! Peter had been so happy! So thrilled and excited and Sylar had been so proud of himself for making that happen! But now, what else could he do but do nothing, look unapologetic, and stand with Peter for the onslaught of further rejection.

*

The sudden chest pain could have easily been another blast from his unruly abilities, but Peter knew this time it wasn't. Taking a step forward, past Sylar's protective, towering form, he didn't even care that Hesam had ratted him out to Mercy Heights security among who knew who else.

That wasn't the worst part of this betrayal. It was the fact he had to defend himself _again_ to an old friend that flared those angry flames to life again within his rib cage. He gave up his weak attempt to keep the crackling light from his hands hidden, throwing them out before him for emphasis.

“Look, I'm sorry I never said anything. But before all this, if I'd told you I can walk through walls and run across the city in seconds, you'd have thought I was crazy!”

There was no real reason to stay here for this. Hesam wasn't blocking the exit, he didn't have a weapon, and he was seriously overpowered even if he tried to fight. Peter could easily just leave this disdain behind and flee without any repercussions... aside from sacrificing the bond that had grown between two people across such a tumultuous partnership as theirs. He _could_ call it quits right now, without trying to fix the loose end here. That didn't mean he was going to.

“I just didn't wanna get you involved in all this!” He insisted, those flames of vexation burning their way into his voice.

Hesam's eyes definitely widened a little at the brief insight to Peter's skillset. Aside from that, however, he didn't change his stance or the hardened edge to his tone. “So what, you're an evo. You seriously think I'd discriminate against that? I've tended to a dozen evos since you left, and you can bet your ass I didn't treat them any different than before.”

“That's _not_ what I meant.”

“I don't care what you are, Pete. I care that you're dangerous.”

The words landed with a clunk in the pit of Peter's stomach. He set his jaw and tightened his fists until his nails stabbed at his palms. It wasn't all in fury though, but also in hopes that it might make him strong enough to withstand yet another confrontation with yet another of his dropping allies.

“What the hell were you thinking coming back here?” Hesam continued, his eyebrows twisted in an arch of resignation. “I didn't wanna turn you in, but you gave me no choice. My job is to protect the people in this building and out on those streets!”

“So is ours.”

Peter's intended retort was cut off by Sylar's injection to the scene.

Shaken out of a murky fog of feelings, he couldn't help but look up at the man at his side. That fire inside was still growing, scarring Peter's insides and clogging up his brain function, but it got a little bit easier to breathe through the smoke, then. Until Hesam huffed and all of the darkness came rushing back.

*

“If you'd call that 'protecting people' then maybe it's time to invest in a new hobby.”

Sylar's temper raged. “If you knew even _half_ of what we've been through, you _ungrateful_...!” With difficulty, he swallowed back far too many curses that would rip Hesam to shreds if released. It was tempting, but he was still too conflicted about morals and Peter's state to be in top form for arguing. He tried again, calmly. “Let us go. This doesn't have to get difficult.”

There it was: the way the Iranian observed Sylar as if he were an ugly stray mutt Peter had randomly taken in one day. Well, maybe he was, but this stray mutt's hackles were rising and he was ready to snarl again if need be.

Hesam bravely squared up to the country's most wanted fugitives. “I can't do that.” If Sylar hadn't been so agitated then he might have actually been impressed. Peter, on the other hand, erupted with passion-infused words, all rippling force and gesturing hands.

“ _Why not?!_ ” Hesam backed away when Peter stalked up to him, and to be honest, a gobsmacked Sylar couldn't blame him.

*

“You think you're doing the right thing here? Well so do we!” Hurt, Peter pleaded through gritted teeth, only more offended by the way Hesam physically retreated from him. “You all keep saying we're “dangerous”, and yes, it's true, but all we wanted was to help the world – _why_ can't you just see that?!”

He was a man possessed. By love, by rage, by a burning power he couldn't control, and by months upon months of heartbreak. Hesam might have a point, but Peter had come too far and lost too much to turn back now! He couldn't bear it, he couldn't ignore it any longer and Hesam just happened to be the poor soul who had used up the last few scraps of his tolerance. As quickly as his anger had first flared, it spread through his entire body. It urged him on, kept him strong and made him brave enough to say what he'd never been able to before.

“Have you _died_ for your cause? Huh?! So many times you can't keep count?! Have you had to drop everything and everyone you've ever known so that nobody can stop you from doing what's right...?!” Peter's voice cracked in fury, which was closely followed by a renewed round of static arcs breaking free from his skin. “Because _we_ have! And _still_ nobody even _tries_ to understand!”

He was sick of it! Sick of all of it! _Just_ when things had started to look up, when his powers had been unlocked and he'd finally dared to feel _alright_ , of course the outside world had crashed in to remind him not to be so naïve! It wasn't fucking _fair!_

There was too much loss, too many hurt faces staining Peter's conscience, and the wound that got bigger each time he severed another connection was turning him inside out in shame. It would be easier not to care at all! Not to have anyone to worry about or let down! Maybe then, and only then, Peter could rest easy. If only he didn't have people to care for.

“...Do _you_ understand?” He murmured now, close enough to the other man that there was no need to speak louder. Hesam said nothing, but there was nothing he could say that would placate Peter anyway.

The empath glared at his former work partner, his blood pounding against his skull and the lock on his powers slipping looser. All the hours they'd shared each other's company were irrelevant now, the lives they'd saved and lost together meant nothing, just because Hesam couldn't take the time to question what he thought he knew...? He was still staring at Peter. Only this time there was fear where there hadn't been before, and there was distrust where there used to be a soft spot for old times's sake. It stung another blast of pain through Peter to his core.

After a long pause, Hesam sighed. The gesture held only a fading touch of sadness at the corners. “I understand that you've been through a lot. I'm sorry about that. But it's changed you, man. Say what you want, but when I look at you now? I just don't see the guy I used to know.”

Peter physically recoiled from that body blow. Disgruntled whispers from his abilities leaked through his veins, eclipsing all human voices in the garage. They were angry with him for being so pathetic while he had the potential to be better, they urged him to _do_ something worthwhile instead of being such a useless pushover _again_ goddammit!

The bruise from Hesam's statement sent Peter spiralling. He couldn't say anything past the stinging throb behind his eyes and the stoking coals of his anger. This guy didn't have a fucking clue! Maybe he wouldn't be so harsh if _he'd_ had to repeatedly look into the eyes of his family and watch them fall out of love with him, simply because they just wouldn't listen to what he'd been trying to tell them all along...?

But _why_ weren't they listening? _Why_ couldn't anyone believe in him anymore? What wasn't working as it should, in everyone else's minds, that meant Peter was still battling a brick wall long after leaving Matt's nightmare behind?! He wanted to understand – no – he _needed_ to. There was only so long things could continue this way, he could see that now. And he had to make sense of it by any means necessary or he would surely go out of his mind not knowing!

Instinct flared the moment before concious thought followed. The last fraying thread of Peter's patience snapped, and he threw caution to the wind, let telekenesis flow forth from his fingers and locked Hesam bodily in place.

*

“Peter!”

Shocked, Sylar reached after the fiery empath to drag him back from the edge, but Peter was in full swing already. He shrugged Sylar off with a half-hearted blast of telekinesis, then continued to try to force his consciousness into poor Hesam's mind in the same way he so hated, the way he had promised never to inflict upon someone else again. All traces of derision were wiped from the Iranian's face and suddenly he was speechless. Hopeless. Far, far out of his depth... and so was Sylar.

Everything that had seemed so important just seconds ago was nothing now. Peter's attitude, Hesam's stink eye, Emma's intrusion... just petty grudges over nothing, Sylar realised now. Because he had only seen Peter like this once before. And not for a _long_ time.

But no. Please no. Because that would mean...

*

It was all or nothing. The end of Peter's tether. The moment where things had to change at long last because he just _couldn't_ stand to backtrack again in the face of pain, and now he had the power to defy the urge.

Finally buckling beneath the weight of his power, Peter gave in and let the pressure assume control of him. It led the way forward, took his hand and guided him on, and he decided to let it because he was tired of fighting and it knew better than him how to get the information he so craved. As a man, he was useless and dispensable, unable to even keep hold of his own family's affection. But with these powers, nobody would ever ignore him again unless he _let_ them think they had the choice!

It was calm in here, soothing. Like slipping underwater where pain was muted and everything was weightless. Serenity cocooned him, clarity tuned out the rest of the world and curiosity promised him the release he'd been craving.

Everything would finally make sense... everything could be put right at last... as soon as he got his hands on the answers... as soon as he _understood_...

*

Rendered numb, Sylar watched too much energy finally leak free from his only friend, like steam pouring from a kettle. Peter Petrelli fizzled like a stuttering flame while he tried to get his ability started: power eminated from the raised hairs on his arms, from the flush in his cheeks, colouring the air around him while his tense little frame sparked static blue arcs and flickered in and out of visibilitiy...

Sylar's breath caught in his lungs when, at long last, the final pieces fit together. The whispers in his ear made sense. The epiphany that had been threatening to break since Peter had first failed to teleport splintered through Sylar so forcefully it likely left cracks along his bones.

It was so clear now. The fault in the plan. The transparent oversight that Sylar had missed until now.

How could he have been so ignorant? So negligent...? He'd done everything right, everything _perfectly,_ and tied it all off in a neat little bow, but still he'd made the biggest mistake possible. He'd forgotten to remember. The fallout of his error was unavoidable. What it meant in the long run couldn't even begin to process when Sylar was already shaken and there was an innocent third party in the room and more hunters could burst in upon them any second.

“Peter... don't...!” Sylar gasped helplessly.

He wanted to help his friend, to swoop in and shake him to his senses before things got out of control. But his body just stood there uselessly while dread prickled along his skin like poisoned needles. Even from the back Sylar knew the expression that was twisting up Peter's face. His throat constricted as if by a bone-breaking grip, and suddenly he was cold as if his back had been pressed up against the wall of an underground cell...

Then the spell binding his entire body suddenly broke, leaving him wavering on the spot when Peter gave up his current tactic in favour of lifting a forefinger to Hesam's perturbed face –

Scandalized, Sylar cried out an echo that rebounded right back to him. “STOP!”

He had no other choice. No alternative option sprung to mind before he threw out a hand, grabbed Peter's body with an invisible rope, and hauled him off his feet with a clatter.

Holy shit. Sylar stood between the fallen, deranged man and his intended victim, chest heaving and thoughts in painful meltdown. He couldn't believe his eyes. He should never have listened to this persuasive, charming, manipulative son of a bitch! He shouldn't have meddled with something that never should have been meddled with in the first place, because now there was no stopping it! There was no undo button, no reset, no cure for the illness that was infecting the empath's system like smoke poisoning his veins.

Sylar could only gape, hoping at any moment he would wake and find it hadn't really happened, that it wasn't real and he still had a chance to do it over, do it better, because Peter had put his life in Sylar's hands and had it deformed by accident. Because it _was_ an accident – it was an _accident_... Peter... no...

The last thing he wanted was to have to fight the beast that had taken hold inside his only friend. But he knew too well that as simple a thing as telekinesis wasn't going to hold off the inevitable. Not for long. Not even close.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I'm sorry again for the wait between updates! But the good news is I split this latest one in half (blame the word count XP) so you have two new chapters to read at once ^.^ Please don't forget to check out the next one, which is up and posted now.
> 
> A quick note about this chapter – I've always thought the relationship between Peter and Emma was adorable, but I was also really pleased they never got together. But here, I just thought it felt right to give them that little bit of closure to their story X) It wasn't a kiss that will kickstart a romantic relationship, but it was the sweetest goodbye I could give them and I thought they deserved that <3 I hope you guys do too ^.^


	23. No Matter What

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say it gets quite graphic in this chapter, so please be aware of the warning! I'll speak to you on the other side – enjoy! ^.^

Pain clawed at Peter's back and shoulders, disrupting his concentration. He half zoned back into reality from the inner workings of his mind, just enough to clamber to his feet to descend again upon his target.

He didn't care about what had happened to interrupt him, he only cared about where he was heading. Dull pain faded and he zeroed into the light at the end of the tunnel, irritated by everything that popped up in his way to distract him: such as the voice that started shouting into his hair and the hands that suddenly wouldn't stop grabbing at him.

“Peter! Peter, stop it!”

Getting angry again, the empath struggled against the resolute figure that was holding him back. He could see the prize in his mind's eye already, had it marked on his vision as a pinprick of light against fuzzy shapes all around him... Information. The truth. Understanding. Knowledge. And knowledge was power.

“I need to – I have to – let me just-!”

“No, you need to trust me! Stop! Trust me!” Peter scuffled again with his captor, his powers roaring like angry lions watching their cub be harassed, but he couldn't draw on them without losing his concentration. Reluctantly, he let go the fading tendril of focus to grab for an ability, finding himself held back by a unrelenting arms around his waist. “Listen to me, Peter, you don't want to do this! You have to fight it! You can!”

Suddenly the arms were gone, a figure stepped into his vision and two scalding hands appeared on Peter's shoulders, holding him in place. He scowled, blinking rapidly into the figure's eyes. Sylar's eyes. Dark and rich and round and framed with long, thick lashes. Suddenly he knew exactly how many eyelashes there were, and even how many particles had conspired to create the amber hues in those irises.

“Trust me... trust me...”

The taller man kept saying it, until it stopped being annoying and Peter realised sincerely that yes, he _did_ trust him. And that Sylar was right. And that Peter actually didn't want to do what he'd been doing. Not really.

*

Sylar knew the other man couldn't help himself, even before he'd gotten a good look at his face. He knew the sensation far too intimately. Still, his heart only resumed its beating when he caught the first spark of awareness flash in the distance of the empath's blown pupils.

“It's okay!” Sylar said breathlessly. He squeezed Peter's shoulders in what he hoped was an encouraging manner and not as desperate as he felt. “It's fading. It's fading.” He was unable to tear his attention from the horror on that face, even to apologise on his behalf as a newly freed Hesam scampered away into the depths of the hospital. It might have been kinder to let this easily bruised man flounder in a haze forever rather than rouse him to face his actions, but Sylar couldn't do that to him. He couldn't just leave him in there to disappear – he couldn't _lose_ him like this.

Peter gasped as Sylar pulled him to the surface out of the tranquility of his power, splashing and shivering into awareness. Only then did the watchmaker let go of him, but kept his hands hovering nearby just in case.

Sylar's chest compressed when the truth of the matter found its home within Peter. His face paled of colour instantly and he swept both hands into his hair, making fists in it. “Where's Hesam?!” He span wildly on the spot, frantically searching the empty ambulance bay.

“You didn't hurt him.” Sylar quickly supplied. Thankfully it was true – he'd managed to intervene before any blood was spilled. However, he neglected to mention that the other paramedic was likely in dire need of a clean change of pants. And that he might not be the only one.

“N-no, but I... oh god...” Peter gasped in tiny hitches of air as if he couldn't catch a breath. He let go of his hair and dropped both hands to cover his face, peering shining eyes over his fingers at Sylar. Neither man drew the courage to say aloud what they were both thinking.

*

 _How_ could Peter have been so stupid? So unimaginably selfish and blind in wanting only to further his own desires without even considering the fallout of his actions?! Not once – not _once –_ in all the times he had dreamed of restoring his powers had he considered reawakening the Hunger. He'd only held this power for hours, before. Not long enough that it had a chance to sink in and feel part of him. He'd even actually _forgotten_ about it, although he couldn't comprehend how that was possible of a device that caused him so much anguish once upon a time.

Later, he would crucify himself over this. But for now, when his balance was wavering and control was slipping in and out of his grasp, for once in his life Peter Petrelli was too distracted to punish himself.

*

“What do we do now?” Peter's hands fell into fists by his side and he gazed up at Sylar as if he should magically have all the answers. Perhaps he should, usually priding himself in being the brains of this partnership, but at the moment Sylar felt about as useful as a sledgehammer that couldn't even make a dent in a brick wall.

He knew what Peter was going through right now. He knew the temptation. He knew the sensation of craving _more_. He knew perfectly well – far too well – how dangerous a possessed specimen could be when nothing else mattered but the goal at the end of the blood-soaked road.

“We go home.” He reached for the other man with the intention of carrying him away if he wasn't going anywhere on his own two feet. But his hand only reached right through Peter and closed on thin air.

Both men stared, perplexed, at the phenonemon. Then feeling drained from Sylar's body while it visibly channelled into Peter's. ...Fuck... It had to have been the shock of the Hunger that had set him off, for suddenly the empath's too many superhuman abilities infused the air like an aura, rolling over him in turn to bask in the limelight after so many years in the dark...

“No!” Peter yelped in realisation, but it was too late. “No, no, no, no!”

“Peter!” Sylar gasped, but the empath just stared at him like a rabbit caught in the headlights, standing there on feeble legs gasping for air. He was bewitched, transfixed, shuddering and shaking and splintering out of control so brightly that he was almost painful to look at. “You have to stop it!”

“I'm trying!”The hair on Sylar's neck and arms rose as the other man's mouth fell open and his eyes clouded over white. “Oh...” He exhaled the faintest breath that somehow rebounded around the ambulance bay. Then he was shimmering in and out of sight; fresh veins of electricity drew patterns down the length of his body while a dancing, fiery cocoon of blue fire consumed him; a fiersome display to which he remained impervous, untouched and unburned at the centre of it all.

Despite the very real danger of it, the display was grotesquely mesmerizing. It was all Sylar could do to watch, to be here, to be useless while his friend endured the excruciating process over and over again.

“Sylar, I...! Oh my god...” Peter reached out and, speechless, Sylar tried again to grab for him, but all he gained were burns on his skin and deeper cracks in his foundations.

Holy shit. Fuck. He had never seen anything like this, not ever, not even after encountering hundreds of abilities in his lifetime! He had to _do_ something! But what _could_ he do when he couldn't even touch the guy or hope to contain his power...? Sylar couldn't remember ever feeling so humbled by abilities until now: the first time he killed a man? That was nothing. The East River? Minuscule. But _this_...? This he couldn't understand, and to a man who could usually understand everything, that was one of the most unnerving sensations imaginable.

His throat closed and his eyes itched. Please no! He broke him! He broke Peter! He must have touched a faulty wire or cut the wrong thread somewhere inside that head, and even though he was _sure_ he'd done it right he obviously hadn't because this wasn't supposed to happen!

Just barely managing to keep it together, the watchmaker managed to channel his thoughts enough to consciously be aware that they couldn't stay here. They had to keep going, even if Sylar had no plan and no idea how the hell he was supposed to pull it off, he had to do _something_.

If only Peter could teleport them out it would be _so_ much easier! That was what today had been all about, right? Why they had broken so many principles and rules in the first place...? What a joke. Because of course it couldn't actually _work out_ for them, and they had been foolish to believe it could even once...

“Can you walk?” Sylar called over the rusty voices of the flames. He watched, with a touch of hope, as Peter groaned in exertion, the flames around him subsided to a simmer and the mist in his eyes dissipated enough for rich hazel to shine through. Thank god. At least it was something.

Peter didn't do anything other than just gaze at Sylar in desperation, but the reformed man took it as confirmation anyway. He guided his companion to the exit as best he could without touch, struggling past the suffocating fingers of fear in his windpipe to focus on the most important issue for now, _right_ now. Getting this unprecedented superhuman as far from temptation as possible, getting him somewhere _safe_.

Then, and only then, they could freak out.

***

People. All around. They writhed at every angle and pressed in on all sides.

Sylar had forgotten what was currently underway on the streets of New York City. Protesters encircled every inch of Mercy Heights Hospital like a living, thriving moat around a castle; a stagnant crowd of offenders and offendees; an evo's best friend and worst nightmare in one. The mob bustled beneath a heavy, overcast sky, one that cast rich blues and purples over the world as if just to match Sylar's mood. The air was clammy, hot although damp, and Sylar couldn't be sure if that was due to the weather, the continued proximity with the energy that was still roiling inside Peter, or being packed in by a thousand of the civilians the pair had sacrificed so much to protect.

A thousand lives. A thousand witnesses. A thousand different ways to cue game over.

Sylar knew they couldn't fly away if he couldn't carry Peter, and they couldn't cross the crowd with Peter in this state and _not_ draw attention. But there was no other way out and nothing else for it except to try and blend in, for as long as they possibly could.

Keeping his head down, trying to zone everything else out, Sylar pushed his way through the swaying entity of the crowd, shepherding Peter along like a bodyguard and his fragile charge. Said charge followed Sylar's direction without complaint, tripping along ahead in a panicked stupor. The only signs he was alert at all were winces that accompanied more rogue crackles of electricity and flame, ones that singed the jacket sleeves of pedestrians who brushed past too closely.

Slowly but surely, a disquieted murmuring rippled through the nearby civilians as they became aware of the intruders in their midst. First doubt, then confusion, then recognition infested the chorus of protests like blood in the water, a savage gash right through the centre of the crowd that couldn't have been more subtle than a spotlight.

The first few screams quickly bloomed into a deafening cluster of panic as the crowd began to flee from two of the country's most wanted vigilantes. The passionate mob descended into hysteria, a stampeding tornado that kept Peter and Sylar at its pinnacle. But it felt far too surreal to believe they were responsible for such uproar. It was like a movie, or a dream, like watching it all unfold through glass that was so thick that sounds became muted.

Sylar just picked up the pace and practically shoved Peter onward whenever his telekinesis could find a solid anchor. It might have been better to lead the way and try to shield the flickering empath more from view, but Sylar would rather keep an eye on him than accidentally lose such a powerful, loaded gun in the midst of all these people.

Not far now. Just keep going. They were almost out... almost free...

*

Peter gasped as he squeezed past stranger after stranger after stranger, the friction against his hyper-sensitive skin scalding like a burn that sent more electrical sparks flaring inward. He had about two dozen senses on the go and all of them had gone crazy simultaneously. It was too much force, too much stimulation grating on raw nerve endings and he didn't even know where to begin to regain his footing.

Shit, it ached, but he couldn't close the internal floodgates now that they had burst open all at once without his consent. Like trying to hold in a sneeze, unbridled power swarmed over Peter again and again until he was literally shaking beneath the pressure of trying to contain it.

It had to be noticeable. It definitely was. People were already backing away from him as much as the tightly compacted crowd would allow, and he couldn't even blame them! He wanted them to run. To save themselves. He wanted to shout to the heavens that he wasn't going to hurt anyone, although he couldn't even be sure of that himself.

But mostly he just wanted to be home, safe and sound, and hide from the nightmare reality that _he_ had unwittingly brought upon himself.

Frantic, Peter ran as fast as his trembling legs would carry him. Another fracture broke his heart with each person who recoiled from this power-crazed evo terrorist who could level them with one thought. The idea chilled him to the core. There were familes here... children... everyone had gathered to fight, in one way or the other, for better treatment and human rights. And an accident wouldn't only end lives here, but provide the perfect example for the anti-evo argument worldwide.

The barrier around Peter's abilities continued to buckle against the rising crest of panic, only splitting further at the seams the more stressed he became. He tried to fight the urge to give in, but he was just tiny beneath the height of his abilities and he couldn't let one break free without them all tumbling down upon him, not while adrenaline was sweeping him along and fanning the flames below him until the burn became almost unbearable...

Hadn't he been swimming against the tide of the crowd for hours already? Shouldn't the end at least be in sight by now...?

Normally being surrounded by as many people as this would be too much too handle. It was a fear Peter was still yet to conquer after breaking out of Matt's basement – even just an hour ago he'd never have imagined he'd be able to submerge himself in a collection of angry, raucous people the way he was now.

But everything had changed since then. This wasn't just an overwhelming puddle of people he'd take the long way around to avoid at the store. This was an ocean and Peter was drowning in it, but he was too busy desperately making his way to the surface to even care where he was.

Despite the regenerating blood that coursed through his veins, he felt physically ill. His head was pounding, his vision wasn't focusing, he was running hot and cold like a fever and he could feel sweat beading along his skin. The writhing mob of protesters seemed to stretch on for a hundred miles, with every jostle or shove upping the mileage just out of spite. Peter tried to be brave and keep his consciousness grounded in the present, but he just couldn't catch a breath while his ribcage was being flattened by what felt like the entire population of New York City.

Everything was a mess inside and everything was conspiring against him. All he could do was remember to breathe, trust the guiding force of Sylar to get him home in one piece, and cling onto the ever fading precipice of control with his fingernails if need be.

*

Sylar's heart was thudding so painfully he suspected it might have been visible through his chest. The pair broke into a run when the path ahead cleared enough to allow it, when civilians and their poster boards parted like opposing tides in the ocean. They shoved back as far as the restraints of the mob would allow, too many faces flickering with the type of fear Sylar had hoped never to be on the receiving end of again.

Although, this time, _he_ wasn't.

When Peter glanced back at him for reassurance, Sylar put a lifetime of faking it until he made it to work in holding back the full extent of horror from his face.

The other man looked like hell. Beneath constant, renewing bursts of his abilities his skin was as pale as ivory, his eyes frantic in the middle of two shadows that framed those orbs like bruises. He was glistening with perspiration and even his lips had just about drained of colour, and all in the few minutes it had taken to get here from the ambulance bay? The sight only further frazzled Sylar's failing grasp of understanding.

This shouldn't happen. Peter shouldn't be able to get sick anymore – he could heal now! He was supposed to be immortal, like Sylar! The former killer remembered exactly how terrified he'd been to maybe find his companion laying on a stretcher back at the East River, and he remembered the exact moment he'd decided cutting into the man's head would be worth the trauma to spare that kind of fear ever again. His great sacrifice was supposed to have _protected_ Peter. Not condemn him to a fate worse than hell.

“Just keep going.” Sylar commanded, his voice just barely cracking. Peter's face turned away as he ran but the afterimage remained seared into Sylar's vision, and probably would for a long, long time.

*

At last the crowd came to an end, and Peter fell gratefully into an open space. He slowed for a second to catch his breath, but before he could even think to get his bearings –

_Whoosh!_

Something heavy came swinging at his face out of nowhere. He didn't have time to dodge or even consciosuly react. But within just that sliver of hesitation, his body exploited this and assumed full control, phasing him through the impact.

With a guttural gasp Peter stopped in his tracks, meanwhile Sylar ran right through him as if he were a ghost. Then he just stood there. Helpless. Lost. Out of strength and out of hope, because the reigns had finally slipped free from his hands and he could _feel_ chaos tumbling into play inside him. Oh no. Oh shit. Oh god.

*

What the...?! Sylar stumbled to a stop. Why had Peter frozen when they were finally free?! He hurried to process his surroundings, then promptly wished he hadn't. It didn't take long for him to locate an approaching line of riot officers nearby, armoured head to toe, nor the one at arm's reach who was scrambling to pick up the baton that he had evidently just launched through Peter.

Sylar snarled involuntarily, and threw the assailant back with a not so gentle twitch of his fingers. Then second guessed himself when the rest of the officers lofted their shields and clicked their weapons, an unmistakable prelude to a fight.

Fuck this. Far beyond keeping his cool, Sylar turned his attention from the little burning man at his side and squared himself off for the battle that had been forced upon him. He had _not_ come all this way just to be stopped at the final, well-armoured hurdle! The evo stormed towards the line of riot officers, arming himself with trusty (and non-fatal) telekinesis, because if he could stop a wall of ice and the whole fucking river in mid air he sure as hell could hold off a few bullets!

But then Peter called for him, and he never even got the chance to try. Sylar's rage instantly shattered upon hearing the strangled sound from behind him, a desperate cry that was halfway between a scream and a whimper.

“ _Sylar!_ ”

His blood ran cold without needing any more information. He turned just in time to see Peter emerging, unscathed, from the depths of his powers: the flames subsiding at last and electricity settling around his once more solid form. It should have been a relief, but it wasn't. Sylar should have been grateful, but somehow he couldn't get behind the idea.

Because even before anything happened, somehow he knew what was coming. _No_...

The ground fell away from under him and everything outside the two evolved humans faded away into nonexistence. Grunting with effort, Peter fell to his knees on the cold ground. He was gasping so much that he couldn't even catch a breath. And when he lifted his eyes to Sylar's, they were alight with two blazing rings of fire.

Then he started to glow.

Without hesitating, Sylar dropped his planned defense tactic and instead just threw the approaching riot officers as far back as he could muster. Then he ran to Peter with his mind chewing on static and his breath catching sharply in his chest. Despite hundreds of greedy onlookers, he dropped heavily to his knees opposite his companion and took hold of his red-hot hands, uncaring of the burns that struggled to heal on his palms.

Hyperventilating, the taut form of Peter Petrelli began to shine so intensely that he blurred at the edges. Pure white light emanated from him, so bright it caught his bones and projected the delicate mapping of veins onto his skin. Sylar was horrified. Sylar was hypnotised.

“Peter... don't.” He breathed, although it was supposed to sound authoritive. But he had no voice, had no plan and no courage to do what must be done.

*

“Sylar. Help me.” Peter's words cracked like dry earth, gravelling low in hitches of fear.

It was happening again. His biggest regret. His reoccurring nightmare. Only, now it was happening for real, and he was just as helpless to stop it as he was in his dreams.

All sense fell by the wayside. His skin was on fire and every single pore was aflame. Everything was too loud, too bright, too overwhelming and gutting and blinding and deafening and power thrashed him around at a force that made even his near death experience in the river seem tame. The force of this most dreaded of abilities span and rotated like a wheel that never began to slow inside him. On and on and on, round and round and round, until Peter wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, but he couldn't because even his voice was a weapon.

“Stop me... please...” He shuddered from head to foot, so overcome with fright that he couldn't shout anymore, couldn't even move on his own. He could barely see past the brilliant glare eminating from his own body, pooling flames into his vision like a crackling filter of red and gold that rippled across Sylar's face. He wished he didn't recognise the sight. That he didn't know what it foretold.

Trembling uncontrollably, he squeezed Sylar's hands because he needed something to ground him. Even though he could feel the damage he was already inflicting upon the man's regenerating skin, he physically couldn't let go and endure his fate alone.

This was the last moment he could change it. The last few seconds where he could be brave or strong enough to form a different outcome than the one etched into his splintering bones.

The moment came and went as quickly as it had the last time.

*

“Sylar! Please!” Peter begged breathlessly, through chattering teeth and fiery, welling eyes, as close a thing to inconsolable as he could be without collapsing.

By now, almost the entire crowd had seen what was happening.

Petrified, Sylar looked numbly around for _anything_ to assist him, but all he saw were too many flashing cameras immortalising this moment, and the same expressions of terror and disappointment mirrored a few hundreds times over. Rarely had he felt so out of his depth, because he knew in his gut that he couldn't do a thing to help Peter.

He could barely even hear himself over the racket of the protesters and the chatter of the entire world, so how the hell was Peter supposed to? Still, he couldn't not try.

“You have to control it!” He instructed as forcibly as he could, trying in vain to drain the ability out of Peter through his touch alone. All he wanted was to wash the pain away and make it stop, to take it upon himself – not to wield as a trophy, but to soothe the other man in sharing the burden between them. But he could feel fear preventing his empathy from doing its job, marring the path that had to be unburdened for the ability to work.

“I can't.”

“You _can!_ ” Sylar insisted, desperately trying to convince himself of this as much as Peter.

Somehow the younger man was moving as if in slow motion. He just shook his head, his hair swishing entrancingly across his face. “Sylar, all these people...” He wheezed. “You have to save them, _please._ I can't do this. I can't... can't _hurt_ them.” The guy should have been sobbing or screaming blue murder about now, but somehow he was barely speaking in more than a whisper. Somehow his eyes were huge and ablaze, but dry.

Sylar knew what he wanted him to do, but he was also done bending over backwards for this man's demands.

He couldn't put Peter down. Not again. The guy looked almost exactly the same today as he had so many years ago in Kirby Plaza; like death warmed up to a radioactive level. Only he was flushed with more hysteria this time around, his fear only enhanced by experience because he knew what had to come next.

So did Sylar.

Finally, he rasped out some semblance of a voice, as choked as it was. “Don't you dare ask me to kill you, Peter, 'cause I won't.”

There might have been someone shouting at them, instructions eerily distorted through a megaphone, but Sylar's heartbeat was pounding so loudly in his ears that everything else played nearly in mute. He stared, numb to the core, as Peter Petrelli was consumed further by a twinkling brightness that was as pure as his soul used to be. A purity that had to be protected.

“...But I can still save them.” Sylar promised.

He was only just able to make out the other man beneath those blinding shafts of light. Peter's lower lip trembled ever so slightly, a concession that touched that face for a second of tenderness through the panic.

“Do you trust me?” Sylar asked. Another slip of time kindled and burned in the air between the men. Then Peter closed his eyes, and nodded.

Surprising even himself with his cool-headedness, the watchmaker gripped his companion's hands tighter and stood, pulling Peter to his feet with difficulty. The smaller man mewled at the motion and Sylar grit his teeth against the fizzing, nuclear pain that gnawed deep into his body, but he didn't desist until he had his friend gripped tightly against his own body and kicked off into the sky.

*

One moment there was ground beneath his boots and people hustling all around, and the next Peter was weightless as wind roared in his ears and tugged at his hair.

He kept his eyes shut against the truth. He didn't want to see it happen or witness the moment he was to blame all over again. The only thing he was aware of beyond radioactive power crucifying his veins was Sylar's body embracing his own, firm and steady and strong enough to carry him as his brother's had once been before.

Peter held onto Sylar and fought the clutches of his ability with everything he had, but the explosion was inevitable. There was no stopping it. He was going to die again, in the most painful way he knew how. He was going to kill his only friend, ravish him with light until he burned alive, just like he nearly had with Nathan so long ago...

He buried his face into Sylar's shirt when he felt it become too late. Like a match striking the wick on a stick of dynamite, Peter started to incinerate from the inside out.

*

“Let go!” Peter yelped into Sylar, even his vocal chords charred and disfigured.

“No!”

“Sylar, let GO!”

“NO!”

Sylar didn't let go, even when his regeneration couldn't keep up with his burns anymore. Instead he held onto the latest victim of his meddling and flew up higher than he'd ever gone before. The intertwined pair soared through clouds that only evaporated upon proximity, burning from the inside and blistering in the heat that radiated off Peter in waves.

Fear was long past. Terror had been minutes ago. It might have been the rush of flight, the thrill of sparing all those lives on the ground, or maybe it was the resignation that came with facing certain death, but up here Sylar cherished the tranquility that enveloped him whole.

No, he couldn't prevent Peter from blowing up like a bomb. But he _could_ prevent him from killing more people than one. The explosion wouldn't destroy him, he would survive, but the man Sylar knew would never come back from wiping out a city and condemning the fate of the world.

It might be questionable of his morals, but while Sylar of course did want to save the people far below, that wasn't the reason he would willingly endure such a demise. At heart, it was a selfish one. And maybe Sylar would always be a little bit selfish even if he did someday become a true hero, because he didn't even feel bad about wanting more to preserve Peter's goodness from the inky blackness of mass murder than spare countless lives from ending...

*

Finally Peter started to scream.

It happened against his will but it happened all the same; a gut-wrenching, heart-stopping sound that would send shivers over his own skin if it wasn't peeling away and flying into the air as ash.

There was no sound in the world that could capture the pain he was feeling, both inside and out. His soul cried for his latest grand mistake, while his body was ripped apart by a white hot heat that didn't just burn – it obliterated.

It was impossible to keep struggling, so Peter just had to cling on tighter to Sylar, relenting to the fire that consumed every cell of his being. He must have been hurting the other man by how firmly he was holding on, but it was nothing compared to the neuclear heat that was blasting them apart like cinders.

*

Not long after Peter succumbed, a tortured yell erupted from Sylar's throat also. It joined his companion's in a raw, interlaced plea for release that couldn't hope to do justice to what they were going through together.

This was more pain than Sylar had ever experienced, and he couldn't control himself at all other than to keep flying. Or was he even still flying? He couldn't tell anymore. He could have been falling for all he knew, because the sensible part of his mind had been one of the first to burn away into the sky behind him like fluttering strips of paper.

Sylar squeezed Peter tighter than ever as the crest of agony overtook them both at once and he physically couldn't make another sound. Neuclear heat cooked them alive, fused their bodies together and became far too bright to see past even if Sylar's eyes had still been working. All he could hear was Peter's grating cry of agony; all he could see was the core of the blast searing through his eyelids; and all he could feel was himself tearing apart at the hands of the only person he had tried so hard to protect.

A shooting star streaked across the sky miles above the city. A white hot blast coloured the heavens and split the clouds apart. Peter Petrelli and Sylar exploded together, dying in the exact same moment.

And then there was nothing.

***

The city scrolled past the window in the usual, bland fashion. Countless buildings and packed traffic and bustling civilians – it was the same in every state. Sadly, Claire no longer experienced that pure rush of excitement upon approaching _New York City!!_ as she had the first few times. Everywhere felt the same when all you got to see of it was streets, TV studios and hotel rooms.

It had been another long day of travelling and it would be another long week of TV appearances and guest spots ahead. Claire could barely even remember what her life had used to be like before a constant press tour had wiped everything else from existence.

She stared languidly through the tinted window of the limo – another commodity that had lost the sparkle of rarity months ago. Danielle, her publicist, chattered as rapidly as ever on the seat beside her, schmoozing and signing Claire's days away without so much as taking a breath. Sheesh. It sounded like another designer was trying to arrange a collaboration, but all Claire really wanted right now was to cuddle up in bed in her pyjamas with some chocolate milk and a black and white movie. But gone were the good ol' days.

Just as Claire's thoughts strayed to her old family home in Odessa, and she toyed with the idea of calling her mother for a catch up, a blinding white light pierced her eyes despite the darkened pane of glass before her. What the hell...?

The teenager winced and shielded her eyes, dazzled into confusion. By the time the spots on her vision began to clear, the limo had stopped, the pedestrians outside were all staring up at the sky, and even Danielle's voice had tapered out distractedly. But Claire didn't spare one thought to such a phenomenon.

Not when her blood ran cold, her regenerating heart threatened to stop beating and she recognised, without a shadow of a doubt, the neuclear blast rippling stains of heat through the clouds. It was pristine, a perfect re-enactment of a memory brought to life. And she just couldn't look away as it twinkled between the highest tips of untouched skyscrapers.

"Holy sh..."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading if you made it this far! I know these were tough chapters to write, and I can't blame you if they were tough to read, particularly the end here. But thank you for sticking with me and the boys anyway <3 Don't worry – THIS IS NOT THE END! We know they can survive such an explosion, but that does not mean it won't have repercussions that affect the rest of the story X)
> 
> I absolutely cannot wait to share the upcoming chapters with you! And if you hate me now for what our favourite guys just had to go through (I hate myself a bit too hehe) I hope the fallout of this will make up for that with a sh*t ton of emotion, angst and drama X) Please stay tuned!
> 
> (P.S. - go look back at my Volume 6 poster and the “sun” might have a different meaning now...)


	24. My Friend

A voice echoed distantly through gleaming corridors, merely a whisper from the outside that got lost in the ruckus of the building. It was pointless to call for help, that had become apparent already. However, that didn't mean Hiro was going to just sit here and wait quietly.

“Hellooooo?! This is unacceptable! I demand to speak to your leader!”

His cries were indignant, pitched in distress yet hiding every ounce of fear if such a feeling were to even grasp him. Which it did not. Of course it did not! He was only outraged by this treatment! Furious that he had been sedated for who knew how many days...! And only very terrified of the ominously silent guard standing watch by the door.

“I am a very important businessman! You cannot treat me like this!” Hiro glared his most fearsome glare but The Haitian merely blinked in response. He was as unnerving now as he had been when performing the same role in a desolate future long ago. Hiro shuddered and his glasses slipped down his nose. While he may be sitting in a sleek, airy conference room, with a glass of ice water on the table and wall-sized windows at his back that looked out upon a skyline that definitely was not Tokyo – there was no doubt this was just as much a prison as the the concrete cells in the basement.

He could not teleport out. He could not stop time and run away. He certainly could not dream of besting his guard in a fight. And so Hiro had to grudgingly face the facts that he was trapped here, a prisoner just like so many others who had been lost to Renautas.

But still he rattled his handcuffs off the tabletop, if only in defiance. “I want to speak to Mr Bennet _now_!” He demanded. Surely he had been waiting here for ages already?!

He felt a brief glimmer of triumph when The Haitian spoke for the first time since Hiro had come to. “It is not him who is to speak with you.”

Then that triumph trickled away, along with most of Hiro's resolve. Instead, goosebumps crept over him. The water in his glass may well have been pounding with each echoing step as the click of high heels upon tile grew louder from outside. And the time traveller suddenly changed his mind: he did not mind waiting here alone, after all.

The footsteps approached before a shadow rolled passed the clouded glass wall, the door snicked open and Hiro tensed in his seat... and then a sharp-featured woman wearing a slick bun and a smile stepped into the room. The amicable gesture was the first thing to give him pause. The second was the blinding white colour of her suit, much more startling than it appeared on TV. And the third was that his interrogator was not Angela Petrelli, as he had been expecting. Huh...?

“Mr Nakamura. A pleasure.” She walked towards him smoothly and Hiro retreated in his seat. He did not bother trying to be polite or businessman-like in his approach, but neither did she. In fact, the woman came to a stop sitting on the table just out of Hiro's reach, towering above him and staring so intently. Her smile was a lot less genuine up close, bright fuchsia lipstick bleeding slightly at the corners of her mouth. “I'm Erica Kravid. I own this company.”

“I know who you are.” Hiro said slowly. Warily. “And I know what you want.”

Erica's smile only stretched wider. “Cutting right to the chase, I see. I suppose you know more than anyone how precious each second should be.” She spoke with the pretense of kindness; everything about her approach intended to put Hiro at ease in order to manipulate him better. But he would not be fooled.

Hiro sat up straighter in his seat. It was a matching display of competence that was more pressing than his urge to run away. “Renautas want to take over every corporation on the globe, but I will not give you my father's company!” He vowed. Never would he hand over Yamagato Industries to this woman and her evil plans! He had seen what she was up to! He had helped his friends foil so many of her plots already!

The shark-like grin disappeared from Erica's severe features, but somehow it was possible for her to look even more fake while trying to appear sympathetic. “In due, time, Mr Nakamura. I have other matters that require your assistance for now.”

Hiro was so busy forcing his most resilient expression that he did not even notice her whip a data tablet out of thin air until it was presented on the table before him. His heart skipped a beat at the photograph it depicted: a neuclear explosion above New York City, violent gashes of orange and yellow against a dark cluster of clouds.

He pushed the tablet away with both tethered hands. “That was a long time ago. We saved the cheerleader and saved the world.”

“That was today.”

Hiro tensed again, suddenly beyond speech. Heat prickled over him like an upturned bucket of warm water, and he wished he could not recall the ghastly sight of people screaming and the blast tearing through the sky... No. Today? _Already_? So soon...?

“Your friends have been causing me a lot of trouble. Now they're causing trouble for everyone.”

Hiro zoned out of the conference room and Erica Kravid's hard eyes until her voice just floated around him, distorted as if he had somehow managed to slow down time despite his powers being blocked.

“Where are they now?” He croaked.

“Why don't you tell me?”

Blinking foggily, Hiro tried to focus again upon the arched brows and perceptive look Erica was dropping upon him. “I do not know.” He said truthfully. He had not heard from Sylar or Peter Petrelli since they had asked for his power to stop a shooting in Las Vegas. He really did _not_ know where they were now. Apparently, neither did Renautas.

“Mr Nakamura, please. I know you've been helping them for months. And I know you think you're doing the right thing, but all you're doing is aiding two dangerous men in damaging the world.” She might have appeared almost empathetic, then. If only Hiro could not see a hundred calculating schemes stewing behind that facade. “We have to take them in. They're threatening evo welfare all over the world, setting a bad example for everyone who wants to live a life without prejudice. ...You wouldn't want your niece to grow up in a world where evos are hunted, would you? Especially considering her father is one. And for all we know she will be too.”

The threat struck Hiro in the heart. Of course Ando, Kimiko and their unborn baby were already on Renautas' radar, a power card that had likely been saved for this very situation. The thought of any of them coming to harm made it difficult for Hiro to breathe. He fought back the very sudden urge to punch Erica in the nose.

“I want her to grow up feeling safe. Not living in fear of people like you.”

He stared directly into that pointed face, emboldened by the thought of his loved ones. He may not have been able to marathon Star Trek with them, and they might not even know he was in danger yet (so be the price for running off to save the world so often over the years), but Hiro would always do his part to craft the best future for them. Even if that had to mean giving others the chance to do so without him.

“I will not turn in my friends.” He promised. “They are trying to make a better world for all of us.”

Erica's eyebrows rose higher up her forehead. “A better world? Nobody else was hurt today, thank god, but Mr Petrelli and Mr Gray nearly levelled the entire city. We know for a fact that next time they won't be so lucky.” She blinked at him, awaiting a concession that never came. “Y'know, for a time traveller, I had expected more of a -”

Suddenly, she choked on her words. There was a moment of ringing silence, the moment Hiro had been dreading all along. Then realisation dawned in those clever eyes, and Erica addressed him in what might have been the most genuine manner so far.

“You... you've seen it, haven't you? You know I'm telling the truth. Then why are you still helping them?”

It took everything Hiro had in him not to squirm, not to second guess the doubt he had been fighting for so long, for months now. He had to believe in Peter and Sylar. He had to believe he had been doing the right thing all this time in aiding them in their plight. “Because it can be different.”

“But it won't be. We know this. You saw what they're capable of, even right now.” Erica leaned in further than ever, as if Hiro was suddenly interesting in his own right as more than just a pawn to be talked down to. “They _will_ get out of control. They _will_ kill billions of people unless someone stops them. And you can either be complicit in this disaster, or you can do the right thing: be a hero, and tell us where they've been hiding. We can stop this before anyone else gets hurt.”

Hiro averted his eyes, warding back memories. He had been at the Sullivan Brothers' Carnival just moments after the cheerleader had jumped, and then he was in the midst of a crowded, bustling street; people were falling to the ground; a fearsome, gruesome display of powers was being unleashed for the world to see... but then Sylar had helped Peter. He held his hands and he talked him down. He flew the danger away from causing any harm, and because of what he had been through – because redemption and motivation had changed him – there was hope again. One man had to fall for the other to rise; one had to sacrifice himself to give the other a chance; the hero was disgraced to cure the villain of his madness, so that he would be there, he could be the strong one when it mattered, be the only one capable of restoring peace when it all went wrong. It had to be that way, because otherwise Noah Bennet and Erica Kravid and Angela Petrelli and the whole of Renautas were right, and everything would be over before they even understood why.

But Hiro had loyalty. And he had courage. Maybe not as much as he would have liked, but enough all the same. And most importantly, he had hope.

His hands tightened into fists on the table, restraints biting at his wrists. He glared steadily into Erica's steely gaze, without an ounce of faked bravado this time. “I _am_ doing the right thing. They are the only ones who can stop you. Lock me up forever if you have to... but I will never play your game.”

The woman's face rippled in displeasure, pinning in place the exact moment she realised she wasn't getting her way without a fight. There was a second of ugly vexation, until Erica slid from the table, neatened her suit jacket and crossed her arms. “We'll see.” Once more she smiled at him, the most uncomfortable of sensations so far. “We'll talk again, Mr Nakamura. Have a pleasant evening.”

She turned on her heel and strolled across the conference room, the strict clatter of her heels conducting the sway of her hips, and for the slightest moment Hiro actually thought that was it. It was over? But then, framed in the open doorway, he watched Erica nod at someone in the corridor. And the large shape of a man crept into sight, standing inside the room with his lips pursed and both hands on his hips. The delight of recognition was short lived. For the Master of Time and Space knew within seconds that this wasn't the same person he remembered.

“Hiro.” Matt Parkman nodded. “Been a long time.”

*

Even though it had been many years since she had been in education, Angela Petrelli currently felt unlike anything but a school kid waiting outside the headmaster's office.

She shifted on the obscenely uncomfortable couch, looking around the corridor of Renautas without seeing it. At her side, Noah had been cleaning his glasses for much too long, and Angela had already inspected the first chips in her manicure too many times. The pair didn't look at each other and Angela didn't acknowledge the humiliation of travelling all the way here to be told off by her replacement, but that was not the most pressing matter of the day. By far.

“You should have told him about your dream months ago. He would have at least listened to you.” Noah spoke quietly and casually, as if merely commenting on the weather, but any idiot would be able to tell how close he was to the end of his tether.

It took too long for Angela to find her voice, handle it, carve it into an appropriate tone and release it. “I had hoped it wouldn't be neccessary.”

“And how did that work out? For Peter, or any of us, for that matter?”

“You know what he's like, Noah. Too sensitive. Self-destructive.” Angela heaved out a sigh burdened by a lifetime of lies. Her hands shook as she fussed with the hemline of her skirt, targeting a loose thread. “The truth will only break him. He's much too young to have gone through so much pain. And after losing Nathan...” Angela's eyes stung traitorously even here, right out in the open where anyone could see, but she was strong and experienced enough to remain composed. It was one thing to cry for her youngest son in the privacy of her own home, and another altogether to cry within the company she had already stepped down from. “I only wanted to spare him.”

“You think having him find out on his own would be preferable?”

“It should never have got this far.” Angela set her jaw and dropped her eyes to the floor, but the damned shiny tiles just reflected harsh reality back at her. Her mistakes. Her misjudgements. Her secrets. Her losses.

Peter was hurt out there somewhere, he was lost, just as he had been the last time he had exploded. The last time his powers had overwhelmed him so badly. It was never supposed to happen again, because Sylar was never supposed to have unlocked Peter's abilities, because he shouldn't have ever been allowed to stay close enough to do so. Of course she had seen it happen months ago. She had known in advance, like always. But what was the point in this curse to dream the future if Angela could never make enough of a difference to change the outcome? Why did it always hurt just as much every time the foretold events came to pass?

“We should have removed Sylar from the equation long ago.” She lamented. “Before it was too late.”

Even from her peripheral vision, Angela saw Noah turn to her and place his glasses back on his nose. “Are you telling me it _is_ too late?” His tone was rough enough to act like a hand dragging her around to face him.

She blinked rapidly up at him, but despite her best efforts she could tell from his expression that her emotions were out on a rare display of vulnerability. She worked hard to clear her throat, but still her voice warbled without her consent. “I'm saying... we're running out of options.”

The way Noah was looking at her now... it was the first time he'd really, truly considered what she had been going through all this time. He would never have done what she had if it had been Claire in the firing line. He wasn't capable of such selflessness. Angela had been aware of his ignorance, of the way the job and his self-imposed morals always clouded his judgement – in fact, she had counted on it in order to get him to work accordingly. But now he was watching her, _seeing_ her in her raw state for the first time: a mother who had forced her way through the unimaginable to try and preserve the world. Yes, people had got hurt along the way, and yes, she hadn't exactly taken the moral highground, herself. But she had been desperate, and she had put aside her own feelings as much as possible to save billions of lives from her baby boy without hurting him too badly in the process.

But now... the countdown was pressing upon them heavier; the world was in growing danger; and the final decision loomed larger than ever.

Angela could still see it even now, when sleep was far from her grasp. Burning clouds, ravaged earth, two silhouettes standing tall against a backdrop of destruction... She honestly didn't know if she had the strength to act should the clock hit zero. Apparently this was evident in her features, but for once in her life she couldn't haul it back behind an unreadable mask. Her skin crawled at displaying such open vulnerability, and only more under the sympathy Noah was filtering at her through those horn-rimmed lenses of his. But she was just so tired of making all the difficult choices in life. So tired of keeping it all together.

“Angela, I –”

Approaching footsteps instantly shattered the private exchange between the old friends. Swiftly, Angela got to her feet, just the sight of Erica Kravid helping her to summon a pretense of composure. Her successor clip-clopped up close, preying upon her subordinates with the ruthlessness and intelligence that had made her the perfect fit for Angela's job.

“When Parkman is done, prepare Nakamura for transport.” Erica commanded, her gaze faltering for a split-second on the flush around Angela's eyes. Then her attention jabbed at Noah, and she gifted him one of the most scathing looks to ever roam these halls. “You. You're on your last strike, Noah.”

“I've already got people searching the surrounding area for any sightings or similar descriptions -”

Erica held up a hand. “Just... _find_ them.”

Noah broke out one of his slimiest schmoozes over gritted teeth. “Yes, ma'am.”

The trio turned at the sound of a door closing further up the corridor, to see Matt Parkman emerging from the conference room with a triumphant look on his face.

It should have been a grand victory after months and months of chasing their tails, but Angela knew what this development meant. For herself. For the world. And for her only remaining child. God help them all.

***

Peter shocked himself awake with the last embers of a scream tearing from his throat. Coughing, heaving in great lungfuls of air, he blinked and shook and squinted painfully at his surroundings through new eyes that were seeing light for the very first time.

His head was pounding like a drum, his body felt too light all over, and every inch of his skin was throbbing as if thousands of tiny knitting needles had just had their way with him. What the hell? What the...? He was sitting up in bed, tangled in wires and crisp sheets, closed in on one side by a curtain and a window framing the night sky on the other. A hospital room...? The ringing absence of splintering pain pressed in on him, invisible aftershocks of having ripped apart from the inside like a paper doll.

Shivering, Peter checked himself over and ensured his limbs were all where they should be. But then why did he feel so _wrong_? Like something was missing? The aftertaste of all-consuming power still lingered in his senses, but otherwise he was clean and new and unburdened, and maybe he just didn't know how to handle such a thing. However, while he physically appeared to be all in one piece, mentally he couldn't fight his way free from a lingering cloud of disorientation.

He had been hurting beyond belief. He had been burning alive. He had _died_! But then he had been somewhere else, hovering, unseen, in a gleaming white corridor where his mother and Noah Bennet sat conspiring about him... It had been far too vivid not to be a precognitive dream.

Still groggy, Peter struggled to free himself from a frightening amount of wires and tubes, spotting an identification tag clasped tightly around his wrist – ' _John Doe: EVO. Regenerative Abilities_ '. Monitors were beeping angrily around him, the hospital gown was itchy against his new nerve endings, and suddenly Peter realised he had no clue how the hell he'd come to be here, or where 'here' even _was_. He had to get out, though. In the dream Noah had been looking for him – he couldn't stay here! Even though he had no plan or even a slight grasp of orientation.

Just when he dropped down from the bed, swaying slightly to catch his balance, the curtain was ripped back and more bright, artificial light stabbed at his eyes. He winced and threw a hand up to shield his regrown corneas from the brightness. “Well aren't we a lucky duck!” A woman laughed, then there were large hands on his arms and a kindly voice telling him to get back into bed. Peter only tugged free and staggered around the room.

“Wh-where am I?” He growled, voice rough as his vocal chords worked for the first time.

“You're safe here. You've been recovering for a couple of hours.” Slowly it came back to Peter in bits and pieces, painting a painfully vivid picture in his memory. The explosion – the bright light – the agony – the end of it all... “You were badly burned when you were brought in, we couldn't believe you were even alive! Honestly, I wasn't even sure you were gonna make it, hon, but it's good to see that face all healed up and pretty again.” She laughed once more, a pleasant sound.

Trying to breathe easy, Peter worked hard to focus upon the smiling, middle-aged nurse at his side. She reminded him slightly of Nurse Hammer from Mercy Heights, except she exuded warmth and empathy in place of pursed lips and a no-nonsense attitude. He still didn't know where he was. It had to be outside the city, Sylar must have flown them for miles before –

Peter's healing blood ran cold. He gasped and clung desperately onto the nurse who was still holding onto him. “My – my friend! Is he –?!”

“He's doing fine, honey. You were found together at the side of the road.”

“Where is he?!”

“Please calm down -”

“I need to see him!” Once more, the empath was off, struggling his way around the bed to the door while his balance fought to right itself and his nurse fought to look after him. Shit! Sylar! How had it taken him so long to remember?! The guy had just died at Peter's hand! He had saved millions of lives! Peter had to get to him, had to make sure he was okay and then get them both the fuck out of here before Noah caught up to them! It was a miracle he hadn't already in the hours (at least) since they had blacked out. How many unidentified patients were brought in burned beyond recognition after an explosion in the sky...?

“You need to get that cute lil' butt back in bed, first. There's plenty time for you to visit after you've rested.” The nurse was relentless, blocking his way and somehow managing to mother him into place despite her short stature and the constant gentleness to her tone.

Peter didn't want to hurt her to get past – he didn't want to hurt anyone ever again! – and he didn't want to get her into trouble either, but his choices were getting pretty limited. Already, within just minutes since he had awoken, he could feel his abilities creeping out of hiding again like water pooling in a puddle, and his patience was running out much faster than he was used to. The insinuations of this would make him feel sick if he was brave enough to acknowledge them right now, but he wasn't.

It was when the back of his legs hit the bed that Peter gave in and fumbled for a thread of a power that could help. He bit his lip and tried to calm down enough to speak clearly. “I'm sorry about this.” He said sincerely. “Tell them I was gone when you came in.”

He waited just long enough for her to recognise the apology on his face. Then, hoping for the best, he tugged on invisibility in the hopes it would save him like pulling the cord of a parachute. The ability sheathed him a little shakily, but it did the job (and without the unwanted accompaniment of his many others, thank god), and so he took advantage of the poor nurse's shock to clumsily slip past her at last and out into the unfamiliar corridors of the hospital.

Somehow Peter managed to get himself lost in this maze. Once, he thought he saw a sign reading 'Philadelphia' which might have given him a rough sense of location on the planet, but it wasn't exactly encouraging. At least he hadn't awoken in the underground cells of Renautas. He should be counting his lucky stars.

Peter was only brave enough to maintain invisibility until he could blend in with other patients in their ugly hospital gowns. He didn't want to tempt his power by giving it too much attention when he still didn't trust himself to carry it. And after what had happened last time he tried to use his new abilities... Nobody should know he had been the charred figure back in that room, but still he couldn't help but feel extremely nervous passing so many oblivious people after almost murdering so many of them back in the city. But he couldn't think about any of that now, or the guilt would tear him into a million pieces all over again. All those terrified faces... innocent lives... it was all his fault...

No. Get Sylar. Get out. Get a new place to stay that Noah and Renautas didn't know about. But first, he needed clothes.

Peter couldn't explain how he managed to find the right place – perhaps he had teleported without realising, or perhaps it had been a guiding hand from above – but somehow he stumbled back into the burn ward wearing a stolen pair of scrubs with another set bundled under his arm. None of the passing staff gave him any notice as they searched for their missing patient, but Peter kept anxiously looking over his shoulder every time he moved on from checking each room.

He didn't know what he was going to find upon locating Sylar. He braced himself for the worst: a scorched and inhuman lump of a person, or a badly disfigured remnant of his only friend... the thought alone formed a lump in his throat. But when Peter finally skidded to a stop in an open doorway, the sight before him was more harrowing than he ever could have imagined.

Sylar.

Breathlessly, Peter inched into the room, setting his jaw and trying hard not to let his lower lip twitch. His heart raced with its physical new lease of life, and although Peter knew he was healthy and whole, he may as well have been paralysed for all he could feel of his limbs.

He had seen this man move objects with his mind before; had watched him stop bullets in mid air; run through fire; fly amongst the clouds and come back from the dead countless times over the years. So how could him just lying there be the most surreal sight of them all?

The man was flawless. Pristine. Immaculate. His skin was smooth and free from so much as a single scorch mark, his hair tousled and soft, and even every single eyelash had been restored, unharmed. He looked perfectly serene as if he were only sleeping, except Peter knew better. Sylar lay on his back with his arms at either side of him, with a matching identification tag adorning his wrist and far too many needles and wires tracing over the length of his body.

He looked utterly helpless. A word that just didn't go with “Sylar” no matter how many ways Peter tried to see it.

All at once he felt very intrusive, because nobody should ever have seen this man in this manner and likely nobody ever had before. It was worse than if he _had_ been sporting burns, because that at least could carry some of the blame. But there was nothing now except an unblemished man and the bare truth laid out before him between tightly made sheets. Sylar was supposed to withstand everything. He was supposed to be the strong one, he was never supposed to look so small. And he was only in this state thanks to Peter and his latest epic mistake.

Somehow the empath was suddenly standing at the bedside although he couldn't recall crossing the room. “Sylar...?” He barely breathed the name, as if that would be enough to wake him. But it was all the strength he had to put into his voice when his insides were twisting themselves into pieces.

He could still feel the echo of Sylar holding onto him, flying him into the sky and burning with him as if it had happened only ten minutes ago. It was obscene that they could both have died since then, that the reformed killer was to be rewarded for his courage and selflessness like... like _this_. Hesitating, Peter reached out numb fingers, brushing only a hint of a touch to the inside of the other man's wrist.

A tiny _bleep_ from one of the monitors caught his attention, and he shook his hair out of his eyes in order to translate the information. Thank god. Sylar's vitals were as encouraging as they could be for even the healthiest of patients. According to the data he should have been perfectly fine, but Peter didn't know of any hospital tech that could make sense of the effect abilities had on a person. He tried not to overthink it – he, himself, had been unconscious until just recently too, and understandably it took a lot out of a person to explode like a bomb. Sylar _would_ be fine. He just needed time. Just a little bit, then he'd wake up just the same as always. Peter wouldn't even entertain the idea of something different.

Still, that was time he couldn't afford to take when his nurse had to be heading this way right now to find him.

As if she had heard him, a cluster of hurried steps sounded outside in the ward just as Peter was halfway through detaching Sylar from his aids. Shit, there was definitely a panicked voice or two in there – say as if someone had witnessed a man heal from the brink of death and then disappear into thin air right in front of her. Or as if someone had finally connected the dots about the incident in New York City and was running to confront the suspects before they got away again?

Then he placed a distinctive, deep voice in the herd, and despite the events of last time Peter found himself wishing it could have only been well-meaning security guards headed his way instead.

Fumbling, he made quick work of the needles, then hurried to close and wedge a chair against the door as the voices grew more shrill and the distance became less secure and the footsteps broke into a run -!

_Bang!_ He staggered back from the barricade just in time, staring guiltily through the small glass pane in the door. Numerable people swarmed at the other side, including (Peter's stomach flipped) the friendly Not-Nurse Hammer from earlier, and at least three duplicates of a big, broad man in a suit. M.F. Harris. He must have been the “people” Noah had talked about in the dream, which meant that Renautas would soon be very close behind.

In the stretch of a second that he just stood there, Peter knew wholly that he deserved this reaction. People _should_ fear him. They _should_ want to lock him up after what he nearly did. In fact, he was lucky even to get that from them, seeing as what he _really_ deserved was for everyone within a hundred miles to flee at the mere sight of him. What if Noah had been right all along...?

A gasp and sudden coughing fit at his back jolted Peter into action, and he hurried again to his friend's side. Relief caught in his chest when he saw the clenching of fingers and a frown marring Sylar's face. “P... Pe-?”

“Yeah! I'm here!” Peter jumped at another bang to the door and a squeal of the chair slipping further across the floor. “I've got you, c'mon...”

Sylar was far from fully awake but they were running out of time, so Peter pulled him into a sitting position and looped one of the guy's arms around his neck. Sylar gasped and grunted in protest but Peter ignored it, hauling his much bigger friend to his feet with what might have accidentally been a touch of enhanced strength, but he didn't notice. He was far too distracted to hear what the crowd behind the door were shouting at him and he was making it all up as he went along here, mind whirring so fast that he barely had time to be frightened.

Sylar's whole body tensed around Peter's when he realised what he was planning, as if trying to dig his heels into the ground. “N-no... not again-”

“It's okay.” Peter promised, throwing out a hand before him. He turned inward to shield his companion from the following shower of glass shards, then adjusted his grip on him and took a deep breath. He spoke with the feigned courage he needed to convince himself of as much as Sylar. “I've got this.”

The door banged twice more before the chair was dislodged and three Harris duplicates burst into the room, followed by a handful of inquisitive staff. But by then there was nothing to find of the evo vigilantes besides a broken window, a fluttering curtain, and two severed identification tags lying intertwined on the bed.

***

The park was relatively quiet at this time of night. Groups of kids would run nearby, swinging bottles or each other around with the unapologeticness of youth, cars trundled past at the other side of the bushes, and disembodied voices would float through the tunnel with an eeriness that left chills in the echoes. Nobody passed beneath the bridge that sheltered two fugitives from the night, but Peter was grateful for that. Because down here hid a monster, after all, one ravenous and deadly if the wrong person were to get too close.

Currently he sat hunched on the damp ground, his knees up to his chest and his scrubs providing no protection at all from the elements. Rain coursed past the open ends of the bridge, having been promised by the clouds for hours, now. A single drop plopped down upon the back of Peter's neck and he shivered for what could easily have been the dozenth time. It was partly due to the water, partly due to the cold of nightfall and partly due to the vivid ugliness of his reality that just wouldn't let go of him.

He huddled a little more into the warmth of Sylar beside him without saying a word. It would be easy to forget that this stoic man was the same one who had been lying in that hospital bed, but the sight was haunting Peter every time he tried to close his eyes. Like so many other nightmare snapshots that he had unwittingly collected over the course of just one day. The memories would have been enough to keep him awake even if he had been safe and comfortable in his bed back in Charles Devaux's penthouse. He missed such a haven terribly.

At least Noah and his duplicating lackeys shouldn't find them here. Who would ever look for them in this random little park on the outskirts of a city that even they didn't recognise? But Hiro was still captured, thanks to Peter. Matt had still found out where they'd been staying, thanks to Peter. And now he and Sylar had nowhere to go, no belongings, no plan, and no one in the world to ask for help.

*

This was the closest feeling to drunk that Sylar remembered. That moment when the hangover is creeping in even though you haven't even slept yet. It made him realise how little he missed being able to be affected by alcohol. Although, now that he thought about it, maybe a black-out-drunk weekend would be a better deal any day than blowing apart in front of millions of witnesses?

He felt like shit. He had never exploded before. What a strange thing to have to justify, but he was going to do so anyway. Sure, Sylar had been electrocuted beyond belief, stabbed in the back of the head and shot on more than one occasion, but he had always just... healed. Not regrown his entire being from a smouldering chunk of ash, even after Primatech had burned down around him. It was just taking him a while to get used to the sensation of a full-body regeneration. Not to mention he was cold in these pathetic scrubs, ravenously hungry, and pissed off.

And that was before counting all the rest of the bullshit that had built up over the course of the day. Sylar didn't even want to know what the media was saying about them now. _Terrorists. Dangerous. Evil._ To name a few. He'd rather just shape-shift into someone else and run the fuck away to a beach house for a few decades or so. If only it was that easy to escape so many mistakes. Ones that hadn't once been voiced in the hours since Sylar had properly come to his senses.

There was so much he wanted to talk about with Peter now that they actually had some down time, but he also didn't even want to look at the guy. It was bad enough having to sit so closely together that their sides were touching when Sylar would have loved the chance to just be alone for a while. So many times Peter had shifted or twitched in a way that Sylar knew he was going to say something, but he inevitably backed out of it. He couldn't hold it against the guy, when he himself didn't know how to even start wading through the shit they had brought on themselves.

But this time, when Peter lifted his head from his arms and his feet shuffled on cold stone, his statement actually made it into existence. Even if only barely.

*

“Th-thanks.”

Yes, it had taken hours for Peter to muster up the courage to say this. Because what else could he say or how could he possibly condense everything that had happened into words alone? His voice was measly and pathetic, but even that was more than he had been expecting.

“Thank you.” He repeated, clearer this time.

“For what? Unlocking the power that got us into this mess, or the other part?” It was the first time he had heard Sylar's voice in what felt like forever. Even though it was just the smallest of sounds, such simple human interaction soothed the edges of Peter's nerves ever so slightly.

“For saving all those people.”

He wanted to reach out and touch more of his friend, but something held him back at the precipice of the action. The way he was sitting rendered the watchmaker's form harsh at the corners, and the way his face was angled away made him almost unreadable. Yet Peter could decipher unrest just below the surface, through everything that he wasn't saying. Such as any acknowledgement at all of the heroic deed he had committed today, for example.

Peter licked his lips timidly, reaching after the fading tendril of communication before it evaded them again. He needed to provide, to try and help his companion. But mostly he craved even a scrap of reassurance in return. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“...Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure. Why wouldn't I be alright after cutting into your head and then being left to deal with the consequences for the both of us?”

Stupidly, it actually took a moment for Peter to realise he was getting into trouble. But when he did, despair kicked in stronger than ever and he wished he could stop his aching chest from breaking away into splinters. But Sylar had every right to feel that way. Peter couldn't even imagine having to act if the tables had been turned. He linked his fingers together tightly, knowing what he had to say – what he _should_ say – but somehow reluctant to put it into words.

“I'm so sorry.”

The figure at his side huffed bitterly, still not looking at him. “Of course you are. You're always sorry because you never think before acting!”

Shame-faced, Peter didn't bother trying to defend himself at all. He only knotted inside and curled up tighter against the wall at his back, wishing he'd just kept quiet. Suddenly he realised he'd been proven wrong in thinking he couldn't feel worse than he already had. So much for the idle dreams of never feeling inadequate again after having his powers restored to him. He couldn't believe he had actually been so naïve only this morning.

Just when the younger man became grateful that his red cheeks weren't under scrutiny, Sylar tensed and turned his face in Peter's direction. In the dark he was cast mostly in shadow, a silhouette against the streetlights outside, but there was just enough light to make out the rush of emotion burning in his eyes.

“I _told_ you unlocking your powers could have side effects! But you didn't even care, did you?” Sylar's voice was as sharp as a blade and barely more than a murmur, but he was sitting so close that he may as well have yelled for the world to hear. “Well are you happy now, Peter? You got what you wanted, you're powerful now. Tell me, is it as amazing as you always imagined it would be?”

Hugging himself, Peter dropped his face and allowed his hair to screen him from sight. “Please don't do this.” He said quietly. He just didn't have it in him to fight. He couldn't perform this dance around the complicated matter of Sylar's feelings and his inability to ever express them correctly. Not when his own were already crippling him beyond repair.

*

Sylar fell quiet then, against the constant pattering of rain nearby. His temper was flaring and he had barely even started – but it was the lack of reciprocation to his temperament that made him check himself and his attitude.

The parts of him that were touching Peter felt bruised by such proximity, by the weight of the burden both men were struggling to carry between them. Sylar resented it. But there was no denying that he didn't feel worse out of the two of them, here. That's not to say he had emerged from the events of the day unscathed (far fucking from it), however it had been terrifying enough for Sylar to _witness_ the meltdown of his ally. He could only imagine what it must have been like to be the one suffering through it.

Peter was blatantly hiding from him, and the thought that he might be crying only fanned the flames of Sylar's exasperation, because it made him want to cry too. Somehow this got lost on the way out and his words emerged dripping with animosity.

“I thought you were gone.” He finally admitted, resting his head against the damp underside of the bridge. “When you went for Hesam, when your abilities all went crazy.... I thought you might never come back from that. Do you know how that _felt_ , Peter?”

The little man might have trembled in the cold right then, or maybe it wasn't that at all, but whatever the reason made Sylar unable to look at even the shape of him any longer. Because he was so fucking angry at the son of a bitch for being so stupid, for pushing his way into making this happen in the first place! Now they had no argument to counter that of the hunters who wanted them dead, who wanted to take them off the streets “for the greater good”. But Sylar was also furious with himself. For giving in and helping Peter with his foolish plan when he'd known all along how stupid it could be, and because he knew it wouldn't be the last time.

Now look at them. After everything they had been though, they had ended up homeless under a leaky bridge with nothing to their names besides too many transgressions between them to count.

Sylar had been this low before, in his past. But there hadn't been anyone else to blame back then.

*

The most important factor of Sylar's confession _should_ have been the tenderness swaddled within it, but it wasn't. Instead, the words just didn't sit right within the shifted planes of Peter's heart. Pressing his palms to his aching temples, he gave life to the swirling black pit of fear that had been creeping into his blood for hours.

“I don't know if I _did_ come back. Not fully.” His throat constricted painfully when he felt Sylar shift to face him once again. Peter tightly closed his eyes against the building onslaught of tears, holding them back with everything he had. “The hunger. I can _feel_ it in me. I'm so aware of it, Sylar, it's... waiting. The next time I slip up for even a moment...”

His voice deserted him when flashbacks of an icy morgue, a flick of his finger and Nathan's dead body smothered him. Last time he had held this power he had killed his own _brother_ out of greed, alone. The thought of how many horrors he could bestow, without the option of returning to his own timeline to start over, was enough to make Peter's stomach compress like he was about to throw up.

“...I don't know if I'll be able to stop myself.” He croaked, tucking his hands tightly between his knees as if that would keep them out of trouble for the rest of his immortal life.

*

Sylar hushed out a dejected breath. He was intimately familiar with these fears. He wished he could honestly tell Peter not to worry, that it wasn't so bad and that he was panicking about nothing, but he wasn't. Unfortunately Sylar had the personal experience to know this for certain.

Invisible weights pressed upon his chest so tightly that he could barely breathe, and suddenly any and all anger he had been harbouring since his resurrection was gone. His only friend looked up at last, fixing Sylar with such honest sorrow from the one eye that wasn't hidden behind a dark veil of hair. Sylar was glad it had grown back from the explosion just as unkempt as before.

“I'm scared.” Peter admitted, frowning as if in contrast to his words. It might have been believeable had the watchmaker not known him so well, or been able to see the reflection of a distant streetlight sparkling in tears that pooled along his eyelashes but refused to fall. He was holding it together much better than Sylar had when it had been his turn. “I'm scared of how it'll change me.”

The former killer moved before consciously deciding to do so. He remembered only too well how horrific his transformation had been at the beginning; when the bloodlust had been insatiable but his mind had still been clear enough to know and detest what he was doing. He had tried to resist the hunger for power. He had sought forgiveness and help from a God who had never answered his pleas, he had even been so terrified of what he was becoming that death had seemed like a better option, once. It hurt even now, over a decade later, to regurgitate these feelings. And never in a million years would Sylar wish the same torture upon this overly sensitive man.

Crouching on his knees on the cold ground before Peter, he spoke very deliberately, very softly now. “Listen to me.” Without even thinking about it, he reached out to free a strand of hair from sticking to Peter's wet eyelashes. “It doesn't have to change you at all.”

The empath took a shaky gasp, and his composure almost shattered completely for the first time. “But look at what almost happened today!” His voice broke. “Look what it did to _you!_ Think how hard you had to fight to overcome it!”

Briefly, Sylar closed his eyes against the reminder. He hated such phrasing, as if his experience could ever be something that could be shelved after having its run, as if it could ever truly be left in the past without leaving any scars behind. Opening his eyes to Peter's before him, Sylar both summoned and bestowed strength by gently grasping the other man's ankles.

“You won't turn into what I was, Peter, because you have something I never did.” He vowed, a rusty whisper that was swept away along the length of the bridge. “A friend.” He squeezed his grip just slightly, watching Peter's heart melt into his expression. “You don't have to go through this alone.”

*

More than anything right then; more than food, more than shelter, more than a way to counteract his many failures, Peter wanted to be able to physically express how much this meant to him. But he couldn't. Not like this. Not in this state.

Sylar's hands were hot through the thin fabric of his scrubs, and his words broke over Peter like a fountain of tingling sparks. But all of a sudden he felt filthy, unworthy of such kindness after everything he'd done. He didn't even want to be touched because he was contaminated, but he would never throw off his friend's sentiment.

He didn't deserve this. _Sylar_ had been the hero today, _Sylar_ had sacrificed himself even though he didn't need to. He had been the brave one who should be getting congratulated instead of _still_ doing his best to clean up another of Peter's mighty messes.

But here they were again, the way it always seemed to be.

*

“Tell me how to help you.” Sylar instructed, just as Peter bowed his head again to hide the first and only teardrop that fell to the ground. It almost sneaked past unnoticed in the dark, while the night continued to rage on outside the confines of this bridge and the rest of the world beyond.

Then Peter peeked up again, and he looked so tired and broken that Sylar promised himself right then that he would do anything – _anything_ – to keep the guy from getting to this point ever again.

The empath sniffled and his lower lip sat ever so slightly off kilter. But when he spoke his voice was as resolute as their Wall had used to be, once upon a time. “Just please don't let me drag you down with me.”

***

Click.

_Click._

_CLICK._

The glow of a screen bathed the far corner of the office a sickly blue, the only source of light that illuminated the lines in the face behind reflective, horn-rimmed glasses. Noah Bennet sat hunched at his desk, over-tired, taking out his stress on the computer mouse in his hand. He had watched and re-watched the footage of the events outside Mercy Heights so many times that it barely even made sense anymore, but still he jabbed the 'replay' button over, and over, and over.

There were no hidden clues as to where the two perpetrators might have gone, no convenient subtitles that filled in the blanks for him. They weren't at the Devaux penthouse anymore, and although it was now under constant surveillance Noah knew his targets wouldn't go back there again. He had exhausted this avenue hours ago, but he just couldn't make himself move on, because that would be scarily close to giving up.

Angela's words still wouldn't let go of him. It was _not_ too late already. He refused to believe it. He hadn't worked so hard and prioritised his job over everything else in his life just to fail and have the world end anyway! Yes, Peter's explosion had shaken him, he wouldn't deny it. Had it not been for his many years on the job, he would likely be as traumatized by such a close call as many of his team were. Noah chose to use the incident as only incentive to do better.

Such as pointlessly replaying the same useless video a hundred times over?

Heaving a great sigh, he slumped back in his seat and removed his glasses, scrubbing a hand over his face. This was getting him nowhere, and he didn't have the luxury of wasting time. Idle thoughts had been forming in the back of his mind for a while now: plan Z, the last resort. He didn't want things to get that far, but with every dead end that came rushing up to meet him, he wasn't proud to admit that the last resort was beginning to look mighty inviting after all.

A brief knock before the sound of the door opening shocked Noah out of dark and desperate thoughts. “Any sign of them?” He asked quickly while replacing his glasses, hating that he was actually hopeful.

“None.”

The large figure of a solitary M.F. Harris loomed creepily in the shadowy recess of the office. Only now did Noah realise how late it had become when he wasn't paying attention. His lip curled impatiently. Harris sounded a lot more self-assured than he had after reporting his failure in Philadelphia, but still Noah had no sympathy for the man.

“Goddammit!” He cursed, slamming his fist down so hard on the desk that an abandoned mug of old coffee tumbled onto the floor. “They almost blew New York City _half to hell_ and you let them get away!”

The other agent said nothing. Although Noah couldn't see his expression in the shadows he could clearly feel the derisive look being cast in his direction. Yes, he knew he was acting like a total hypocrite and taking out his frustration on Harris, but that was just because there was nobody else to point the finger at but himself, and Noah despised that. If _Sylar_ of all people hadn't stepped up and spared millions of innocent people from being obliterated... then those deaths would be on Noah. And there was one particular person that was in the city right at this moment, wrapping up the latest leg of her press tour...

Taking a breath, the company man calmed himself enough not to bite Harris' head off this time. “What about Parkman? How's he doing?”

“Still painting.”

Noah ignored the lack of “sir” in that statement and got stiffly to his feet. Parkman had been at it for hours, surely he _must_ have something of use by now? Grumbling to himself, Noah stalked past Harris, blinking in the brightness of the corridor as he made his way to the elevator. He tried not to set the bar very high on his expectations, but desperation can do terrible things to a person after they've been put through enough. If one thing was to be taken away from a full career in this business, it was that fact.

The final door _bleeped_ upon his arrival and Noah was instantly met by the rich scent of oil paints, ink and turpentine. The converted room was unrecognisable as an old cell; with paintings stacked over every free inch of wall space and canvases littering the floor. Noah paid this no notice by now, instead approaching the engrossed form of Matt Parkman, still at work.

Two new paintings were drying on their easels at either side of the transfixed artist and a third piece; one a modest portrait of Petrelli's face; the other, two figures apparently talking on a rooftop. Neither of them held anything of importance that Noah could discern, so he cut right to the chase and shook Parkman by the shoulder.

“Parkman.” Upon receiving no response, he shook him harder. “Parkman, that's enough!” With another tug, the former cop's tense posture eased and he shook his head, the fog in his eyes fading away.

“Wha- what?” He turned with the paintbrush still poised, confused for a moment.

“I thought I told you to quit it with the masterpieces and just work quickly. All we need is information, we're not opening an art gallery.” Noah nudged him to one side to have full access to the freshest image. Then his gut swooped. “Well I'll be damned...”

*

Matt shook himself out of the lingering coils of prophecy, wiping his hands on a paint-smeared rag in his belt. He stretched his stiff neck and legs, unsure of how much time had passed while he'd been painting. By the look of it, enough to have crafted at least three new masterpie –

He took a double take, then stormed across the cell. “Son of a bitch!” At his back, Noah made a half-assed grunt of a question. “That guy left me to rot in the middle of an African desert!” Matt jabbed an accusing finger at his new portrait, even before Noah tore his eyes from another piece.

“...That's Peter.” The older man drawled.

“No!” Matt insisted, feeling old anger begin to prickle. “Not the one we know, he's from the future!”

At this, Noah's eyes roamed indecipherably from behind his glasses, an arrogant thought process that Matt had hated since the first time he'd met the guy. “How can you be sure?”

“See the scar?” Matt traced the fine pink gash of paint that tore the length of Peter's face. Then he straightened and rubbed a hand over his chin, contemplating the painting again while shaking his head. If he got a chance to give the bastard a piece of his mind... “It's him, alright.”

*

Wonderful. So not only was Noah on the look out for Sylar and a Peter with all his abilities restored – there were _two_ of him out there. It was enough cause for concern that Noah might finally have lost his temper and his sanity at once, had Parkman not provided him with the perfect remedy for such things.

Turning back to the newest prophecy, Noah gripped the sides of the canvas and smeared his thumbs in the paint. He didn't care. He was too engrossed by the picture before him, one that was responsible for a great deal of his stress and panic fading away at long last.

How extraordinary. What had merely been a half-formed idea in Noah's mind was now fully-fledged before him in bold colour: the bare outlines of a thought having been nurtured into fruition by someone else's hand. Of course... it made sense now. He understood the twist, the angle, the way it had to go for anything worthwhile to be done...

*

Curious as to Bennet's strange action, Matt dodged over dropped brushes and palettes to stand beside him once more at his newest painting. There was a second of mental translation from the shapes on the canvas into concrete knowledge, and then Matt scoffed, turning to his boss with disbelief slathered all over his paint-smeared face.

“You can't be serious?” He half chuckled at how ridiculous it was. “Bennet, tell me this isn't what I think it is.”

Mr Horn Rimmed Glasses didn't correct Matt in his epiphany. He didn't free his attention from the canvas, either. Although outwardly that hint of a smile didn't increase, Matt could interpret growing smugness from the other guy without even having to read his mind.

“This is crazy!” Matt insisted, half sure this was a joke on his boss's part.

“Yes.”

“Not to mention highly dangerous!”

“I know.”

“B-but you can't _seriously_ be thinking... I mean, we've never tried anything like this before!”

Noah Bennet turned his face at last, a smile curving beneath two reflective squares mirroring Matt's perplexed face. “And that's exactly why it just might work.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I absolutely surprised myself by suddenly finishing this chapter. I feel like I barely got started and it finished itself very quickly, but that's never a bad thing X) Hopefully you guys enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> After the very big events of last chapter I always think it's nice to get a well-deserved decrease in pace for a bit, for the boys and us to catch our breath again. Saying that, this was still a pretty busy update! Just on a smaller scale ^.^
> 
> This was also the first chapter of Act 3, and I am sooooo excited for this next chunk of the story! I've got a lot in store, you can count on that X) Please let me know what you think of this chapter, I cherish every single comment and will try and reply as quickly as possible <3


	25. Like Old Times

The hot water did nothing whatsoever to relieve the tension in Peter's muscles, but still he couldn't bring himself to leave the shower. Steam pressed against his freshly washed skin, the sickly smell of cheap soap permeated the entire bathroom, and most likely there would be a complaining knock at the door any second if he didn't get his butt in gear, but he didn't care about any of that.

Just a few more minutes. Let him hide in here, warding off the rest of the day for a little while longer. As soon as he stepped out of this room it was game on, resume, another round of 'Peter Struggling to Master His Abilities', and that was never pleasant for anyone involved. It would be so easy to give in to the overwhelming sense of failure. But Peter Petrelli had never been good at many things, and quitting was no different. He couldn't give in. The only thing worse than running to meet the disaster that was his life head-on would be to deny it altogether.

The last time he had lost control of his power and exploded above New York City, he had “dealt” with it by isolating himself for months in a prison and renouncing his abilities. But this time he wouldn't just run away from the problem. This time he was at least _trying_ to do better, even though it had been a difficult few days already.

He stretched his neck from side to side and tipped his face into the spray of the shower head, reluctant to move although he'd been in here for far too long already and he knew it. Shit, he had forgotten how exhausting it was to train in his abilities when every single one of them could be as unstable as a ticking pipe bomb. Every knot in his muscles marked every triumph and failure in re-learning how to wield them again: the first time he'd been able to hover for over a minute without another ability creeping up on him; the latest time out of many he'd scorched the carpet and almost set off the smoke alarm again... the latest one stemmed from not even half an hour ago, when he'd lost control over electricity and zapped a very displeased Sylar on the nose.

It wasn't easy work, by any means. But Peter was grateful for the pain. It pushed him to do better, reminded him of everything he'd touched on so far in harmonizing his original empathy with the synthetic version that still existed within him. Such as learning how to balance his concentration between two powers at once, for one example. Like practicing to pull out the correct one without dislodging all the others around it, for another. And getting used to replicating only select ones through touch alone, instead of absorbing too many at once by accident.

The most important part of Peter's training, however, concerning the whisper that resided in the back of his mind, was the only part he had refused to confront. Giving it attention would be giving it power, and giving it power would be giving it everything. Peter still wasn't ready for that.

Day by day. Little by little. Otherwise eternity began to look pretty fucking scary, he had come to realise. Even if only for just now, he reveled in this respite. This escape. This moment where he didn't have to worry about anything other than how mad Sylar would be with him if he hid in here much longer.

But every second was precious. Every moment he wasn't working on mastering his power was a moment wasted. And while Renautas was still out there and innocent people were still getting rounded up, Peter couldn't afford to waste time any more than he could safely control it.

Reluctantly, he shut off the shower and shook his wet hair off his face. The shitty little bathroom looked even shittier through bleary eyes; the cracks in the walls more obvious against the stains, and the solitary light bulb even more decrepit-looking as it caught the late afternoon sunshine. But hey, it was still an upgrade from living under a bridge until the end of time, right?

Shivering in the absence of hot water, Peter stopped himself just before grabbing for his towel. He could easily reach across the width of the tiny room without even leaving the tub, but he didn't.

Instead, he released a deep, calming breath, set his jaw and held his outstretched fingers before him, concentrating. After a taut second of no response, the towel twitched, clumsily lifted off the rail and hovered through the air towards Peter. Before slipping from his hold and splashing into a puddle on the floor.

Great. Off to another productive start.

*

Steam leaked out from under the bathroom door, the sound of Peter shuffling about in there barely audible over the ancient television set that was of _course_ broadcasting The Indestructible Girl's latest talk-show appearance, despite only receiving a handful of channels.

Claire Bennet smiled that fake smile and promised those fake promises to a world that was desperate enough to lap up the idea of “peace and equality” between _them_ and _us,_ of a life where Renautas were “helping others” and where people didn't have to fear exploding men or a mysterious corporation that stole them away and locked them up for the rest of time.

Sylar had only been watching it because there was nothing else on after he'd had his turn in the shower. But when Claire's laugh grated on his nerves one too many times, he switched the TV off with a rather harsh lash of telekinesis. Of _all_ the hypocrites to ever hypocrite in the history of hypocrites. Stomach rumbling, Sylar ruffled his drying hair and settled back on his pillows, deciding to count ceiling tiles or something while he waited for his roommate's glacial reappearance. Even the state of this hell-hole wasn't as off-putting as Little Miss Bennet and her lies.

At first this seedy hotel room had been a less than encouraging sight: two moth-eaten single beds, a solitary, grimy window and a shoe-box of a bathroom (all of which probably hadn't been renovated for at least two decades) wasn't exactly an easy transition from a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park. But beggars can't be choosers. They were just lucky to have found a place that wouldn't question mysterious golden pebbles as payment, didn't ask for any form of identification upon check-in, and never came to investigate noises that sounded suspiciously like stray electric bolts or objects being thrown clean across the room...

Sylar subconsciously rubbed at his smarting nose. Even though he had long healed over and washed off any lingering soot, the tingling sensation of electricity continued to swarm over his skin. All he'd done was sneeze, for fuck's sake. How was he supposed to know Peter's ability would snap at the sound and zap him in the face? Well, lesson definitely learned. Sylar wouldn't make that mistake again for the next ten billion foreseeable sessions...

Of course it was much harder to mentor Peter than it had been to mentor himself, or even to help Maya with her ability once upon a time in Mexico, because even a woman who cried a fatal plague of black tears _obviously_ wasn't as much work as Peter Petrelli. Getting burned was just part of the job, Sylar had realised too late. Figuring out how the other man's powers _should_ coexist wasn't the tough part. Describing them wasn't that much harder. But actually getting Peter to listen, to understand, to translate that knowledge into various actions and juggle his abilities simultaneously...? Well. Sylar's patience was probably the most exercised skill to come out of the whole arrangement.

At long last, the bathroom door opened and the energized empath emerged. He had dressed in a simple button up shirt and jeans from the batch of clothes Sylar had “recovered” from the laundromat next door, having had to roll up the sleeves and ankles in order for them to fit better. Sylar was secretly happy that he hadn't been able to find any in his friend's correct size, if only for personal amusement.

*

“Okay, so what now?” Drying his hair with a towel, Peter paced agitatedly on the spot, unable to contain the enthusiasm in his voice. “I was thinking we should look at telepathy next. Turning it off isn't so hard anymore, but _using_ it...? I'm _so_ tired of getting snatches of those guys fighting next door; you should hear them! Or no, maybe not, but be glad you can't, believe me...” His chuckle faded off and he lowered his towel when his eyes finally landed on Sylar's expression. “What?”

Only when his teacher propped himself up on his elbows and raised an eyebrow did Peter notice he was sprawled out on his bed with little intention of moving. Sylar just looked at him as if his next words were genius. “ _I_ was thinking... maybe we've trained enough for today.”

It took Peter a second to process such absurdity.

Despite a few unfortunate injuries, Sylar had been nothing but encouraging and impressively patient these past few days. Maybe if Claude's teaching methods had held even a scrap of the understanding of Sylar's then Peter could have learned to control his powers properly the first time, all those years ago. At least now he had the opportunity to learn at his own speed instead of being whacked in the stomach with a stick every time he tried to catch his breath. He was grateful for that, even if it meant he was progressing at a pace his last teacher would have been horrified at.

But now Sylar had randomly decided to put the brakes on for no reason? What?

Peter fought not to get irritated as the ends of his eagerness began to trickle away. They'd only been working for six hours today, and that didn't feel like nearly enough! The more time they wasted before getting back down to business, the more difficult it would be to stay in the right mindset for practising!

*

“...Is this payback for shocking you before?” Peter spoke uncertainly, twisting the towel nervously in his fingers. “I already said I'm sorry – it was an accident.” Just the mention of the incident that had prompted Sylar to call for time out rolled phantom pains through him anew.

“Oh trust me, there will be payback.” He promised, face stinging again. “But this is just -” Both men jumped a little when a rapt knock sounded at the door. Then Sylar answered his friend's questioning expression with a pleased one of his own. “- perfect timing.”

*

If Sylar didn't currently look so relaxed then Peter might have already been freaking out at such an intrusion. Were they expecting someone? Who in the world would even want to see them? The “do not disturb” sign should have been on the door – it had worked so far, anyway. Sylar's expression clearly meant Peter was supposed to answer the call, but he only rocked on the spot in indecisiveness. Was it safe for him to get it? He hadn't even set eyes on another person since getting here. What if it was an evo? What if it wasn't? What if it was someone coming to complain about the smell of singed Sylar that was maybe still lingering in the air...?

The former killer was watching him expectantly, his eyebrows lifted and a smile tickling the corners of his lips. It was this, coupled with a small blip of curiosity, that made Peter drop his towel on the end of his bed and carried him across the room before he could change his mind.

Then he was standing in the open doorway, face to face with an unfamiliar teenager who looked like she'd rather be anywhere other than here. Peter couldn't help but stare at her – a stranger, an outsider, the most ordinary looking of ordinary people who had no idea how close she was standing to the insanity that was his life.

This was the first time he had come close to a normal conversation with a normal person in too long. Suddenly Peter didn't even know where to begin. So many contradictions ticked through his mind like a dial spinning data in front of his eyes, and he couldn't be sure if it was a power creeping up on him or if he'd just gone severely stir crazy locked up in here.

After too long a silence, the girl offered a monotonous “Room service?”

Her voice shook awareness into Peter. Enough to feel self-conscious of wearing too-big clothes that obviously weren't his own while she looked him up and down, and to feel anxious when her eyes scanned past him into the room beyond. Suddenly he remembered the many burn marks littered around the walls and floor, the ungodly mess of the place, and the fact that two mysterious men who were clearly hiding away in here was bound to be suspicious. Fuck.

*

Back on his bed, Sylar rolled his eyes and pulled himself to his feet. A guilty Peter Petrelli was less subtle than a rainbow dinosaur trying to sneak through a crowd, and that was _not_ what they needed right now. If you want something done...

*

Trying not to sound as uncomfortable as he felt, Peter tried to block the girl's view of any evidence of his superhuman shenanagins. “Uh, I don't know if we -”

“Don't listen to him.” Peter startled when Sylar appeared at his side. Then a warm arm was draped around his neck and he was pinned so closely to the other man that deep chuckles vibrated into his torso from Sylar's. “He's just eager to get back at it, aren't you, puppy?”

Oh man. So _this_ was payback for earlier. When the girl slung an unamused look over the pair, Peter only cringed further. Only because he didn't know what else to do, he forced a stiff, embarrassed smile that fell far short of Sylar's performance. It wasn't returned by the girl or sympathised with more than a roll of her eyes.

*

Ah, Sylar had forgotten how much fun it was to play with people. It had been far too long. He hadn't even realised how much he'd needed a spark of levity when everything else around him was so serious. Who said it always had to precede murder?

He toyed with Peter's wet hair, enjoying the reddening of the guy's cheeks and every bit of discomfort it imposed. He was actually being generous. This was nothing compared to being electrocuted when you were only trying to help. “Now don't forget to tip the nice lady.” He crooned into his companion's temple, making a display of it. “Then you're mine for the rest of the night.” Grinning shamelessly at their unimpressed visitor, he waited while Peter fumbled on the sideboard for one of the remaining gold pebbles Sylar had made.

As soon as Peter took the laden tray, the girl departed with a scoff and the door clicked shut, the little man ducked out from under Sylar's arm. “You done?” He jabbed a look over his shoulder before carrying the food away.

“Aw, don't be mad, honey.” The former killer stretched smugly as he crossed the room. “Here's an idea: why don't we play with some more electrostimulation? I know how much you _love_ that...”

With an impatient exhale, Peter set the tray down on Sylar's bed. “We don't have time for games, alright? We need to _focus_.”

*

“Oh, relax.” Sylar tutted before plopping himself down on his stomach next to the tray. “Would you rather she knew what we've _really_ been doing in here for days on end?” He raised an eyebrow before helping himself to an undercooked french fry.

Peter didn't reply. Sylar actually had a point, there. Instead he just stood next to the bed, struggling to make sense of the new arrival: the tray. It was practically buckling beneath a mountain of questionable looking food – different assortments of different meals that couldn't possibly taste good together even _if_ Peter was hungry. But he wasn't: he was energized. He'd been fine living off leftover take-out recently, and he didn't need waffles or cold pizza or fries or grapes or whatever else constituted as “dinner” in this establishment in order to concentrate. Sylar, apparently, had other ideas.

“What is this?”

“A little of everything, I believe. I asked for ice cream, but they “don't do” honeycomb. Actually, they don't even do room service, but with a touch of charm on my part –”

“No, I mean what are you doing?”

Sylar's face screwed up at the taste of his last fry, but it didn't stop him from picking up another or speaking around it. “Think of it as your next lesson, if you want.” Then deep, dark eyes found Peter's, roiling with a shielded intensity that gave both men pause. “It's time we worked on tackling the Hunger.”

Peter just blinked at him. Was this a joke? He couldn't even tell if the guy was trying to be funny.

“You're telling me that _eating_ combats the Hunger?” Slowly, he pointed at the tray of food, unable not to express the insanity of this idea on his face. “You could have ordered a pizza any time you wanted to kill someone?!”

He would have been certain that Sylar was winding him up, if a flicker of hurt didn't show on his face before the corner of his lips lifted to compensate. Instantly, Peter regretted his carelessness. “Not quite. But I found it helps.”

*

Sylar watched questions chase themselves across that tired man's tired face. He couldn't blame him – it _did_ sound as fake as anything close to an apology would from a Bennet's lips, but he wasn't deterred.

Even just the sight of his only friend sitting there in over-sized clothes, with a healthy growth of facial stubble and internal bruises that regeneration couldn't ease, was enough to give Sylar the incentive to fight for his piece if need be. When he'd promised to help Peter manage his condition, he hadn't planned on turning the man into a constantly running machine that spent every waking second working itself crazy. He shouldn't have been surprised, really, having witnessed the tenacious man at work and hitting an unbreakable wall for years on end. But Peter needed to learn that not every problem can be solved by whacking it with a hammer until something eventually changes. And this time Sylar was the teacher. Which meant that, this time, he got to call the shots.

Peter started rambling. “B-but we can't just... What about everything out there? We're wasting time! Micah and, and Hiro – we need to _rescue_ them!”

“You're no good to anyone until you can control your powers.” Sylar dipped his head to keep their eye contact when his friend lowered his gaze. “You've been overworking yourself, Peter, you need to calm down a little.”

“Calm down? How am I supposed to calm down when I can't even trust myself to go outside?”

“Do you want to get better or not?”

A crack of guilt touched Sylar upon the worry that replaced Peter's previous, energetic resolve. Damn it. At least it got the guy to shut up with the excuses for a moment. Sylar sighed, ran his fingers through his damp hair and grabbed another fry. Cold. Soggy. Disgusting. But at least it was better than nothing. On second thought, he warmed the bowl with a low hum of electricity in the palm of his hand.

“The Hunger feeds off your anxieties. It grows stronger the more stressed out you get.” He explained, ensuring to be gentle this time but not patronizing. It wasn't a secret that this topic had been one avoided until now, by both parties. But Sylar had the unfortunate hindsight to know better than to ignore it and hope it went away. “The best thing you could possibly do right now is relax, unwind, and act like a normal guy for a change.”

Trying to be thoughtful, he held up the bowl of fries for his friend, even though the things themselves could hardly be considered a gift worth giving.

*

Feeling as though the rug had been pulled out from under him, Peter couldn't help but wait for the inevitable punchline. On the off chance he _was_ being serious, this would certainly explain Sylar's love affair with food, for one thing. But it definitely didn't sound like a legitimate solution. However, he could read this intelligent man well enough to know that, as insane as the idea was... it wasn't intended as a joke.

“You're serious?” He breathed. Could it actually have made a difference? Or was Peter just making a fool of himself here? “This isn't just an excuse because you don't wanna work tonight?”

“Oh, I _don't_ want to work tonight.” Sylar said it so bluntly that Peter barely even got a chance to be annoyed. “But it's not an excuse. As teacher, I'm in charge, right? So sit your butt down, Petrelli, eat some of this crap, watch a terrible movie and just relax for once in your life.” He smiled a hopeful, inviting smile that suddenly made his ravings not seem so stupid. And in fact, a flutter of something akin to butterflies danced inside Peter's chest.

He hadn't forgotten how vulnerable Sylar had looked wired up in that hospital bed (the one _Peter_ had put him in) or how quickly he had come to Peter's aid even if it meant he would explode as well. He had been so forgiving these past few days, had done so much with only minimal complaint, and although this plan still carried a whiff of manipulation about it, Peter knew that taking a few hours off duty was hardly the biggest sacrifice to ever transpire between the pair.

So when Sylar impatiently waggled the outstretched food offering, he just couldn't say no to him. The watchmaker raised both eyebrows in a no-nonsense manner, and his voice touched Peter's awareness a few shades softer than it had before, even though his lips weren't moving.

_Peter. Please. Do this with me._

With no intention of arguing further, the empath sank numbly into the mattress beside his friend, catching the freshly steaming bowl of fries. Pleased with himself now, Sylar got fluidly to his feet before crossing the room and busying himself with the old TV set.

Honestly, Peter couldn't really understand why he was falling for this madness. But they _had_ just died horrifically not even a week ago. Everything else in their lives had gone to shit. And even after all these lessons being bossed around and told what to do by his friend, Peter had rarely seen Sylar act this way when not working. Not for a long time. It felt new, a little suspicious, but most of all... it felt exciting. Which happened to be a remedy the pair desperately needed right now.

Sylar's thoughts filtered through to Peter inaudibly, a happy hum that wouldn't obey when Peter tried to shut it out for the sake of politeness. Unable to bite back a smile, he scooted up to make himself comfortable against the pillows. Should he feel guilty for feeling so much better about his state of mind in just these few seconds than he had in all his time training? Huh. Maybe Sylar really was onto something here.

The man in question straightened up, hiding both hands behind his back. He bit his lip, taming a playful grin that begged to break free, then pulled out two ancient VHS tapes that had to have been sitting there since before the pair had even started high school.

“So – what first?” He asked with a loft of a great eyebrow. “'Redneck Zombies' or 'Return of the Killer Tomatoes'?”

***

The golden touch of sunset stroked the men's faces, the breeze a cool kiss that bade farwell to the dregs of the day. They looked out upon a rather unspectacular view of scruffy rooftops and water towers rather than Central Park, and the sounds of the unfamilar city provided only an imitation of a backdrop of home, but it didn't matter. It didn't ruin this. Actually, right now Sylar wasn't even sure that anything could.

“...Oh, he was _furious_.”

He laughed lazily, resting his head back against cool glass.

“Cause obviously nobody believed he was shouting at _me_ and not the kid at the checkout. The manager was called, the store security... And the whole time Parkman's trying to kill me with a look cause I just couldn't stop laughing.” He paused in his story, pushing himself off the window for an impersonation, digging both hands into his hips and pursing his lips for Peter's mesmerized benefit. “ _'We'll talk about this later!'_ but because they couldn't see me they thought he was threatening _them,_ and it started all over again!”

Sylar cracked up anew just at the memory. Chuckling deep in his chest, he struggled to hide the achievement from his face when even Saint Peter failed not to laugh at Parkman's expense. The guy hid his snigger in his latest cold slice of pizza, fidgeting guiltily on the hard platform. Another slice of pepparoni fell to join the many others littered around and on Peter. He really _was_ the most hopeless eater Sylar had ever known.

“All that trouble for planting one dirty magazine in with the brie...” Sylar continued, nearly wheezing by this point. “And he couldn't even make them forget because of his stupid “sobriety”! Totally worth it.” Letting out a satisfied sigh, he rested back against the building, hands laced arrogantly behind his head, and let the evening peacefully roll over him once more.

To his right, Peter was tucking in happily to more food, although he had to have eaten enough of it already. Sylar was actually impressed, if he was honest, considering the man's usual neglectful attitude towards meals. They were like greedy little kids eating too much just because they could, only to regret it later. But later wasn't here just yet. Stomach nearly full and complacent, Sylar told himself he was done with the leftover assortment of dinner scattered around himself and his companion. He just crossed his legs at the ankle, so long that they spanned the entire width of the fire escape and his feet rested against the far railing.

Peter's couldn't reach. Sylar quite liked that.

*

“I wish I could say that I saw his turn to the dark side coming...”

Peter enjoyed the lulling tones of his friend's voice as he just talked about anything and everything and nothing. It soothed him into this warm sense of serenity, one he didn't even realise he'd needed as badly as he had.

It felt like he hadn't just hung out with Sylar in forever. Sure, the guy had always been there, they'd gone on missions together and crossed the country multiple times, but they'd always had a cloud of responsibility looming over them. There had always been other things to think about. Even now, there was more danger than ever hovering at the edges of Peter's peripheral vision, but for some bizarre reason it just couldn't touch him here on this rusty fire escape. And that was amazing.

Content, Peter finished his last mouthful of cheesy tomatoey goodness before hunting around the platform for the pizza box to deposit the crust in.

“I always knew he was a self-righteous bastard, but I just thought all you _heroes_ were.” Sylar continued.

“You did, huh?”

Peter's grand expedition was interupted by a lilt in Sylar's tone. The guy's mouth pouted in a delicate smirk and he tipped his head as he spoke. “Some more than others.”

Peter pulled a face in return. “Well back atcha, buddy.”

Sylar laughed at himself after Peter caved first, pushing the recovered pizza box away now that he was finally full. Seemingly without even noticing, the former murderer rescued the box and started making his way through the abandoned crusts. Peter didn't know if he was doing it because he hated wasting food, because he was making a point about Peter's messy eating habits, or if he was actually still hungry after polishing off half the thing already (not to mention every single one of the waffles). He didn't mind, either way.

Breathing deeply, Peter ran both hands through his hair, closing his eyes against the fading caress of the sunset. Sure, watching killer tomatoes wreck havoc for an hour and a half had been fun and all, but it couldn't compete with _this_ part of the evening.

How could this possibly be the same universe as the one he'd been inhabiting these past months? How had he been so swept up for so long that he'd forgotten what it actually meant to slow down and _enjoy_ the world he was fighting so hard to preserve?

This was perfect. Just this. But it was also temporary. Peter could hardly fathom the idea that he had nearly ended life as everyone knew it so recently, that he was still a danger to himself and to society, and that Noah and Renautas and M.F. Harris and even his own mother were hunting him down at this very moment... But they were. Somewhere out there, the world was still turning.

But that was tomorrow's problem. For now? Peter wouldn't want to be anywhere else but right here in this moment. Had he felt confident enough in his ability to stop time without ripping it apart in the process, he would have done so in a heartbeat.

*

A small sigh at his side made Sylar turn to Peter. The empath was still smiling to himself long after the joke had faded, looking so at peace, somehow so comfortable sitting on a steel grate with his back to a hard window pane that he reminded Sylar of a cat about to settle down for a nap.

He could have let him. It might be kind to let him drift off in this state of bliss. Sylar actually couldn't even remember the last time he had witnessed such a phenomenon. But curiosity got the better of him.

“What?” His voice was slightly muffled by a pizza crust.

*

Peter cracked open an eye to find he was being watched. Suddenly he cringed under such scrutiny. “No, nothing.” He lied, fidgeting slightly on the spot. Right then the hooks at the corners of Sylar's mouth were more dangerous than a threat of violence would have been.

“What is it? You can't just make that face and then keep quiet, it's not fair, it's – it's illegal, Peter.”

With a bashful shrug, Peter relented. Smiling modestly, he leaned forward a bit, distancing himself from the support of the window to look his friend in the eye. “It's just... this is nice.”

*

Sylar had never been too good with mushy stuff such as _feelings._ Especially when the past half year had been nothing but constant action and movement and planning and there had barely been any time to dwell on such things. But Peter's sentiment settled comfortably within his core without resistance.

“Feels almost like...” The younger man started, then receded, quashing the rest of his words before even giving them life.

Sylar smiled gently at him, lowering the half-eaten crust from his lips. “Like back in our city.” Peter's whole form relaxed, and a touch of self-consciousness left him with the dying light of the day.

“Yeah. Guess so.”

Sylar knew the man was holding back much more that he wanted to say. But no manner of words could ever capture what they'd endured together in purgatory, so he didn't press him and he couldn't supply any help from his end. He didn't need to, anyway, when they both knew the reason why.

A strange feeling stirred in the pit of the former killer's stomach then, like it always did at the reminder of where he'd once been and what he'd been through, and he had to turn his face away under the pretense of finishing his pizza crust. That time was always complicated to look back on. Sad, in a way it shouldn't be. Painful, in a way it should. It was a huge segment of his life that had no discernible validity or impact except in his and Peter's memories. So much had happened there. so much had been left behind.

“Feels like a long time ago.” Sylar mused to the skyline, the smile fading from his lips in favour of a soft, full pout.

A thoughtful silence fell between the two while Sylar nibbled the end of his crust without tasting it, couldn't fathom the rest, and so carefully avoided Peter's gaze to stretch across him and dump the pizza box out of reach for future.

*

Toying with the unrolled cuff of his too-long sleeve, Peter followed his friend's motion with his eyes. For a second he was transported to a different life by the reminder of _Sylar_ , and _forever_ and _home_. The only things that had existed, once upon a time. They'd used to sit just like this, often times sporting fading black eyes and bruises, when things had still been evolving between them and the rest of the world had been theirs.

Sometimes it was crazy to think that their years in that city had even happened at all. Sometimes it was crazy to think they'd ever left.

Speaking quietly, Peter ducked to search for consolation in his companion's expression. “Does it ever... feel more like a dream to you? The longer ago it gets?”

As if he'd been sparked by another rogue ability, Sylar straightened up far too quickly. He was much closer than either man had anticipated, and Peter found what he was looking for in the form of dark, shadowed eyes flitting rapidly between his own.

His heart skipped a beat and he cringed a little, suddenly very aware of Sylar looming over him, watching his face so openly, so closely. It was only now he realised how much they had relaxed together while sitting here, when personal space had ceased to exist and boundaries had slipped down without notice. Sylar visibly tried to read every last letter of Peter's thoughts through his gaze alone, eyebrows drawn low, mouth open in a perfect, questioning 'o'. He, however, wasn't the one in possession of such an ability.

Peter didn't mean to listen. But suddenly the other man's secret voice was invading his senses like smoke. _...He doesn't mean it... he's only testing you... the bastard..._

There was a silence when it seemed he wasn't going to answer aloud. Then he slowly shook his head, those eyes still scanning Peter for answers when the undeniable truth spilled forth.

“...No. You?”

The building pressure upon the empath's chest lessened, and his voice almost caught on the way out.

“No.”

*

Peter's eyes warmed and a smile bloomed shyly on his lips, asymmetrical, grateful, kind. One that Sylar weakly returned. Thank god he wasn't the only who felt that way about Parkman's little _trip_. For a moment, there...

It felt like it should have been the end of the discussion, and Sylar would have pulled back from this uncomfortable, half-crouched position if the potential lure of something more wasn't keeping him from moving, but it was. Slowly the smile fell from Peter's mouth, leaving behind the promise of speech that Sylar could hear even though there was no sound to it yet. He cocked his head slightly in a question that wasn't answered, before plonking himself back down beside the smaller man before he could linger much longer.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Sylar made a task of wedging his hands beneath himself to cushion the hard grate. What the hell was that about? Why would Peter even ask such a thing and then go silent? Sylar desperately wanted something to fill the twisting void in his gut – another pizza crust seemed a good bet about now, but not if it meant he had to lean over Peter again. Dammit.

He was spinning so deep in his own thoughts that when the former paramedic spoke again, Sylar wasn't expecting it in the slightest. “Thank you. For staying with me through this: my abilities and... everything else.”

*

It was much easier to say it when Sylar wasn't so close that Peter could practically taste the sweentess of waffles on his breath. Funny, that scent always reminded him of a man in the future who had been good and kind and generous and so fiercely protective of his little son. It reminded him of Gabriel, a man who had endured the impossible to surpass any of his own expectations and those of the world around him to become _good_. He had always been a beacon of hope, and was now more than ever, for obvious reasons. Who would have thought back then... that maybe that man and the one before Peter now weren't so different?

His lips curved again when he recovered his friend's gaze, the gesture formed of respect coloured with sadness. The sun was finally disappearing beyond the city and the air felt colder to breathe somehow, like Peter's lungs could hold more of it. He let this calm him enough to dare look beyond the safe haven of this moment now that it was ending.

“I just wanted to... to let you know I really appreciate it. Everything you've done for me.” Losing steam, he chuckled hollowly to his thoroughly wrung shirt cuff. “Anyone else would have just given up by now.”

When he peeked at the other man again he was met by a look that encased the entire length of his body. Sylar was hunched, as if uncharacteristically trying to make himself small, and at first Peter thought he had upset him with his confession. But before he could begin to craft an explanation, Sylar replied quietly, seriously. He didn't return Peter's smile yet he didn't come across as unhappy, and there might have even been a touch of amused irony hidden somewhere in his expression.

“You didn't give up on me.” His eyes crinkled just slightly. “Just returning the favour.”

Oh... It seemed obvious now, but Peter had never thought of it that way before. Clearly this revelation was obvious enough for Sylar to survey him the way he was now. Such burning attention was almost too much to handle, and he dropped his eyes to the nearly empty tray of food sitting between the pair. “Yeah.” He sighed, hating that was true. After being on the other side of the situation for so many years, never once had Peter imagined their roles would be reversed.

“Look, Peter, what you're going through right now... I know it can be -”

“Y'know what? You were right.” Peter cut Sylar off. “Some time out actually _did_ make me feel better. Thank you.” He badly forced a smile before dropping his eyes from Sylar, busying himself by picking a grape from the tray even though he wasn't hungry anymore. As bizarre as it sounded, the other man might actually have been right about this unorthodox method of stilling the greedy whispers inside with rest and relaxation. Peter hadn't heard much from them for hours, now.

At least, until the topic had crept upon him again.

He would have been happy to let the conversation fall to rest, move on, and to sit here listening to more of Sylar's many stories until the sun rose and the world caught up to him once more. But then an echo of the other man's thoughts slipped through his mind like sand through his fingers, stilling his heart and leaving alarm bells chiming in its wake.

_You shouldn't thank me just yet._

*

Sylar hummed, unsure how to feel about the tender recognition of his actions. Such a thing still felt rare enough not to be taken for granted, yet he couldn't bask in the glory this time. Fixing his eyes on the horizon once more, he wasn't really seeing the black silhouettes of the skyline against the fading rash of sunset.

“I don't recall you preparing a feast for me when it was my turn.” He chuckled weakly, leaning back against the window and stretching his legs out once more in an enviable performance of tranquility. “But considering _your_ cooking, maybe that's not a bad thing.”

Beside him, Peter let out a thin, hopeless breath. “...I'm _such_ an idiot.”

“Don't beat yourself up, this stuff doesn't taste much worse than yours.”

Sylar rolled his head to the side to capture the other guy's reaction with a smile set and ready to go on his lips. But instead he saw Peter slow in his chewing and put down a half-eaten grape, his eyes wandering slightlessly over the fire escape, brow creased as he struggled to comprehend an unpleasant train of thought.

Oh shit.

Sylar's stomach plummeted. He didn't understand why or how, but he knew it was already too late to salavage this construct of peace that was falling apart right in front of him. It was always going to happen eventually, but that didn't make it feel any better. Limbs tingling, he dropped all remnants of levity as the truth was slowly revealed, dreading it, hating it, unable to speak until Peter finally lifted his eyes to Sylar's.

They were absent of two blazing rings of radioactive fire that he had feared, thank god. But that didn't mean they didn't burn with something far more terrible than death: betrayal.

*

Like day turning to night, everything looked different now.

Peter struggled to swallow with a very dry throat, his companion's thought rebounding over and over through his many, many senses. The guilt-ridden expression stamped across Sylar's face didn't do anything at all to relieve his suspicions, which only slashed another tear in Peter's chest. It might have been better if he'd even tried to deny it.

Sylar sighed. “Peter...”

“All this... it makes no difference. Does it?” He spoke quietly.

The truth was still processing over Peter, but somehow actually saying the words aloud made it so much worse. How could he have really been so stupid? The easy way out, the painless avenue, the promise of salvation had of course been too good to be true... and he had fallen for such foolishness like the sucker he was. There was no escape. No solution to his condition. He was stuck this way, bound to this curse for all eternity, and he had no one to blame but himself and his own selfishness.

He shrugged away from Sylar's reaching hand, recoiling from more false promises like the mass of them now laying heavily in Peter's stomach. All the food, the whole evening... he couldn't believe he hadn't noticed the obvious cracks in the facade until now.

“Wait -”

“Don't _._ ”

Feeling sick, Peter grit his teeth and closed his eyes. He could sense it already, every band aid that this reprieve had soothed over his wounds was being peeled off at an agonizing, drawn-out pace. Breathing heavily through his nose, he tried not to overwhelm himself with disappointment. Or the acid resurrection of violent, superhuman infliction that rushed through him anew from a dark corner in the background of his being.

What the hell had he been thinking? What the hell had _Sylar_ been thinking...? Actually, Peter suddenly realised he already knew. He got it. He understood. But that didn't make it anything closer to okay.

*

Shit. Frozen sadly in place, Sylar could do nothing as his good intentions crumbled down in pieces around him. His hand was still outstretched, unmet, towards the other man, and his heart was stampeding guiltily against his ribs. Oh, Peter...

The guy was visibly upset, getting quiet, getting agitated again as every tender stitch of the tapestry of the evening was undone. Although of course there was the fear of awakening a dangerous surge of his abilities, somehow it wasn't that which concerned Sylar the most. He didn't care right then about abilities and he didn't care about world-ending power. He cared about his friend, and the fact he had hurt him again.

When Peter shakily climbed to his feet, Sylar struggled to meet him. “I – I had a reason.” He said, a pathetic attempt to defend himself. What little voice he had deserted him completely when Peter sighed bitterly and threw a look brimming with disappointment over Sylar, making him feel even more dispicable than he already did.

“Why didn't you just tell me the truth?” He spoke huskily, devoid of any of the emotion that made him who he was. “You think it was better to lie? To make me actually believe I could escape from _this_...?” He stuttered but didn't continue. Instead, he looked down at his body as if for the first time, rocking on the spot, and stumbled back across the platform as if in hopes of evading himself.

Lunging after him, Sylar grabbed the guy's wrist, tightly enough to stop him without coming across aggressive. It wasn't the thought of what this emotionally unstable superhuman could do if he got away that drove him. Not at all.

“Okay, I lied. And I'm sorry about that – I _am_.” He insisted honestly, hoping his friend would see it as such even if it hurt them both to hear this. “But you want the truth? ...There's no cure. You're going to have to live with this for the rest of your life, just like I will. The only way to get rid of the Hunger is your father's tactic, which I don't think is an option here, do you?”

In response to the anguished frown that formed on Peter's face, Sylar's gut twisted uncomfortably. It was the first time the little man had looked truly distressed in the face of Sylar's deception. He didn't want to know what his companion's powers might do if they got close enough to such a feeling, but it was imperative to get this all out before Sylar lost his chance.

He leaked more compassion into his voice than should have been possible. “I was only trying to help you.” He admitted. The words hurt to regurgitate, a lifetime of torment finally breaking the surface for air. “I know it's not perfect, and I'm sorry I can't actually fix everything. The world will never understand you or what you're dealing with – I know this better than anyone. You're going to stumble, Peter. But that's alright.” Sylar stroked his fingertips lightly over the inside of Peter's wrist, drawing what he hoped were encouraging circles into him. “Don't you see...? All this?” With his free hand he gestured to the evidence of their peaceful evening littered around their feet. “It _almost_ worked. It's _enough_. It's enough for me and it can be enough for you too.”

*

Sylar's voice filtered through a cloud of denial, of self-pity and blame and disappointment and hurt. It was the only thing that could penetrate the fog but still the words themselves didn't make sense to Peter. His skin was crawling, he wanted to scream, he wanted to shed himself like a costume and be free of it all, of everything. Every time the plague within him was mentioned it grew bigger. It was purring and expanding the longer it got attention and there was nothing Peter could do to stop it.

A particularly firm tug on his wrist drew him across the platform until he stood nearly toe to toe with the towering form of the other man, the one responsible for some of the hurt currently swirling through Peter's veins.

So it was true. He was condemned. A lost cause. Broken beyond repair when all he'd wanted was to get better.

On the inside he roared like a tiger who had been wronged, so many thoughts and feelings and voices and energies competing to get to the forefront, but it only made it to the surface as five gnarled little words. “ _How_ can this be enough...?”

Sylar's face was serious, almost pleading, but his heartfelt declarations couldn't find an anchor in Peter's palpitating heart. The man was too constricting and too close and all Peter needed was some space to breathe. Some space to be alone.

“The Hunger doesn't control you every minute of every day, Peter. Only if you allow it to. You were fine this evening when you thought it had no power over you – you _can_ withstand it, and I'll help you. Don't give it the strength to destroy you like I did.”

*

Sylar had long wished someone had said all this to him. That someone had removed the smoke and mirrors and laid it all bare, but instead he had found this out himself the hard, torturous and bloody way. Peter didn't have to follow that same path, although the toxic fumes gathering behind his eyes foretold a rage that wasn't entirely his own. Jesus.

“It's just an ability like all your others, you're just afraid of it.” Sylar softened his hold on the other guy in an attempt to show trust, to ease him back from the shadows inside. “But you don't have to be. Not if you have something to keep you strong.”

He watched his advice fall flat, bounce off Peter's sheilds and flutter uselessly off the edge of the fire escape down to the street far below. And suddenly he was only too aware that he was holding on by a thread to the most dangerous, powerful superhuman of them all.

Peter's face screwed up in effort, and Sylar despairingly prepared himself for the attack he could see coming a mile away. But none did. Instead, Peter just disappeared from his grip as the man phased himself into freedom. No-!

The empath's voice got strangled on the way out. He scowled up at Sylar, but the hatred lacing his youthful features wasn't directed outwards. “But what if I'm not strong enough?”

Terror, the first pure dose of the stuff, consumed Sylar when his ally disappeared into a sheath of invisibility and he lost him. Pins and needles consumed his body while his eyes scoured the empty platform and his ears honed in on any noises to signify movement: a breath, a step, even a slither of too loose fabric...

“Wait! Where are you going? It's not safe for you to -”

“I know!” A disembodied voice snarled, fading into the distance high above the outside of the staircase.

And then Sylar was left alone, furious with himself and angry at Peter too. Yes, Sylar had lied to such a fragile specimen, even though he'd known it would backfire in the end. But wasn't it worth it? Just these few precious hours to pretend the world wasn't ending around them...?

He could have kicked something, but he felt too laden with guilt for that. He could follow Peter to the rooftop he was inevitably brooding on, but through experience he knew the guy needed space to cool down after a fight. Really, he couldn't deny him that.

And so, helpless, useless and uneasy, Sylar set about clearing up the state he and Peter had made of the platform. At least he could actually do something about _this_ mess until the other one returned.

***

It didn't take long for the anger to fade. That wasn't why he was still sitting here.

It had to have been at least an hour ago when the maelstrom of emotions had settled into a lumpen mass of guilt and shame that clung to Peter like tar. It burned against his skin, choked up his insides and cut off his oxygen supply, yet still he continued to live. He would live through anything after all. He was immortal now... right?

But what was the point in living forever if _this_ was to be his destiny? The idea had held promise when Peter had planned to save millions of lives until the end of time, not nearly end a million more by accident and then hide away for the rest of forever.

He heaved another great sigh, tightening his arms around himself even though it didn't provide any warmth. He sat hunched beneath the compressing night sky, the breeze no longer pleasant but biting him through the thin cotton of his shirt. The stars yawned in all directions overhead, muted by forming rainclouds and city lights, except somehow he could see them clearer than ever if he chose. There were countless planets out there. Existing just as this one did. The one Peter could easily rip to shreds if he happened to wake up on the wrong side of the bed one morning. He had the power. He had the Hunger, the drive to consume and consume and never look back... and he had no remedy. No release. No escape. He was trapped within the cage he had brought on himself, and that was the way of it. How long would it take before the killing started...? He couldn't even think about that part.

Peter Petrelli blinked shining eyes at the heavens, reflecting two full, silver orbs back at the sky. He would probably survive up there. He could fly into space, regenerate without oxygen and live by himself on the moon, if he had to. Forget the desert. It wouldn't be nice, but at least it would be safe. No temptations, nobody to endanger, nothing to break and nothing to ruin – just a dead, barren expanse that could provide the world sanctuary from him if he couldn't get it from himself.

Huffing softly, Peter ducked his head to look down over the side of the building instead. It spoke to how far he'd fallen from sanity that he was seriously contemplating running away to the goddamned _moon_. Nathan would have loved that. Angela would roll her eyes and slap him. Claire would once have lectured him about being so ridiculous, but the way she felt about him now... he wouldn't put it past her to wave him off. He would miss life. Traffic. Lights. Sounds. But it wasn't like he hadn't survived without them before.

He adjusted his position on the cold stone wall, suddenly not taking in the scope of the unfamiliar city before him. Sylar. He would be furious if Peter were to present this plan to him. He'd joke at first, then get sarcastic, then mean, then desperate, then gentle. Peter couldn't even imagine leaving this planet without his only friend, but it would be awful of him to ask Sylar to come because he suspected the answer would be 'yes' and Peter couldn't do that to him. He had to stop being so fucking selfish.

Shivering in shame, he didn't bother to move his hair from fanning across his face in the wind. Now that there had been some distance, and now that he had time to just think things over, the whisper of the Hunger had receaded again and Peter's mind felt fully his own for the first time in a long time. It terrified him how new it felt, because he hadn't been aware of just _how_ close it had been lurking.

His chest constricted painfully as he once again thought back to this evening, how he had acted. He'd been so horrible to Sylar who had done so much for him. Not even just today, not even just this past week, but for months, now. One day he would find the limit of how far Sylar was willing to go for him, and that was a place he didn't ever want to discover. Peter had to apologise. More pressing than the desire to get in from this lonely night was the desire to work things out with his only companion, but this doubled as the reason he had stayed away for so long.

It was harder to go back when he knew he had done wrong rather than it being the other way around. Forgiveness had always been easier for Peter to give than it was to earn, especially when he was unsure whether he even deserved such a grace.

But he had to try, right? He had to _try_ to deserve it, then try to receive it. It was a better plan than emigrating to the moon, at any rate.

The first drops of rain began to tap around the solitary form of the empath. So, stretching his stiff joints, he looked back up at the distant orb of the moon once more while he climbed down from the edge of the rooftop. The thing was half concealed behind thick clouds for now, but it was always there. Just in case. A good back-up plan if things got too out of control. But for now, back on planet Earth, things couldn't continue this way. Something had to change.

All the resolution Peter had slowly accumulated was slapped from his hands like a deck of cards when he turned to head downstairs through the building – only to be met by the distant silhouette of an identifiable, unmistakable watchmaker. Only now did he really realise how dark it was up here.

“Peter?” The man breathed from afar, barely a wisp of a sound that spread warmly across Peter's face.

He didn't even bother asking how long the guy had been there. Awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, his heart ached and he quietly cleared his throat. Better sooner rather than later, right? “Listen...” He began, grateful for the shadows masking Sylar's face and any expression that might derail his courage. “I'm sorry. I know you were only trying to help before. I shouldn't have over-reacted like I did, you didn't deserve that and...”

But Peter's apology was interrupted by Sylar storming through the light pattering of rain towards him, so fast he might have been flying. He hauled Peter into a hug that would have thrown him off balance if the taller man hadn't been cradling his body against his own so tightly. Swaying a little, Peter needed a moment to let the sudden embrace sink in. Then he wrapped his arms around his friend in return, unable to hide his surprise from the movement.

It felt sinfully good to be held. Sylar was solid and reliable and as warm as a blanket in comparison to the night's chill. He squeezed Peter so tightly it was as if he hadn't seen him in years, and Peter hoped this meant he was forgiven for being such a jerk. With a particularly jarring stutter of his heart, he relented to the hug, making the most of it while it lasted.

But Sylar never let go. And Peter quickly started to get worried. “Hey,” he said gently, voice muffled in the shoulder of the other man's coat. “Hey, what's going on?” He knew it as surely as he knew superpowers were real: this was about more than what had happened on the fire escape.

Almost reluctantly, Sylar unlatched himself and pulled back. Clouds moved overhead and the man looked down with valiant, heavy eyes that glinted in the moonlight, and it was only then that Peter noticed something was different about him. Up close, touches of silver traced the familiar lines of his face in the dark: the slope of his brow, the curve of his nose, the cut of his cheekbones that ran into a thick, dark, untamed beard that then disappeared behind strands of disheveled hair...

Losing feeling in his limbs, Peter could only gape at this man who hadn't physically aged a day, yet he _felt_ older, wearier, more tired. He didn't need to say anything because Peter understood already. He knew what was happening but still he couldn't believe his eyes.

The visitor's hands ran down the outsides of Peter's arms, leaving trails of goosebumps behind, before falling still at his sides. And then he spoke. “I have a message for you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so... what could be going on here? XP I hope it was clear enough there at the end, and please feel free to sound off with your ideas or interpretations, because things are about to get way more interesting... X)
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed the boys just having some time to relax and hang out (at least for a while), because I think they deserved it and it's been a few chapters... and also because things won't be slowing down again for a while ^.^ But in a great way, I promise! If you've stayed with me and the guys this far I want to thank you <3 There is still a chunk of story left, and I really hope you'll stick around for what's to come ^.^
> 
> Please let me know what you thought of this chapter, feedback is always appreciated more times than I can say it X)
> 
> P.S. I recently drew the scene from last chapter where Peter and Sylar are under the bridge, so please check it out over on my gallery: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10701150/chapters/33281694


	26. Burn With Me

Peter tripped backwards as a vice-like force clamped down on his ribcage. Chest heaving, mind reeling like a spinning top, more of those goosebumps rolled over him in waves although the other man wasn't touching him anymore. He wouldn't have been able to look away if his life had depended on it. Holy shit.

Sylar rocked back on his heels slightly, rubbing his hands along his thighs as if he was now regretting the manner of his greeting. Peter could still feel a fading echo of the hug shrouding his body but he didn't care about that – not when he could still smell hints of smoke and dusty air that definitely didn't belong here, yet hadn't seemed strange until now. He had never once known Sylar to be so bedraggled: his hair left uncared for and his coat worn and tattered as if he had been actually been living under that bridge in the park since they'd stumbled upon it.

How had he not noticed earlier that something was wrong? How had he missed the distinct eerieness to the night that revealed something was out of place here? Out of time?

“Wh-what... _how_ did you...?”

Peter's knees were shaking and he didn't know what to do. Shocked immobile, he was unable to form a coherent sentence from the thousands of loose strands of thoughts getting tangled up inside. What was this? When would Sylar acquire this ability? _How_ would he acquire the ability?! Had he killed someone? What if he had succumbed to the lure of his past again? What if he _hadn't_? And if not, why would he jepoardise such an outcome by doing this...?

For a moment Sylar seemed to forget why he was here. He looked around his surroundings in awe, wide eyes tracking everything from distant airplane lights overhead to shadows framed inside windows in opposing buildings. He looked entranced by everything, saddened too, and Peter shivered at the second-hand sensation he could only imagine.

Clouds should have been dancing across the moon, casting roving shadows and patches of moonlight upon this looming figure, but suddenly Peter noticed that everything had frozen around them. Raindrops glistened in the air like hovering icicles, the ambiance of the city had fallen silent, and even the breeze had given up on him. He hadn't even noticed time ground to a halt until now, but that was _far_ from the most surreal thing going on here.

Slowly, Sylar straightened himself up tall. The empath watched the other man drag himself back to his senses once more, back to Peter, whose stomach flipped uncontrollably upon such intense inspection. He fought not to shrink back further as Sylar burned two holes into his face with that gaze. It was difficult not to be a little afraid.

Nightfall was not enough to mask the aura the visitor exuded the longer he stood there. Tired but resolute. Dependable. Weathered. There was something new about him, like a fresh slash of colour tore straight through his design, and Peter knew in his gut that this man was different from any other incarnation of Sylar he'd ever known. He certainly wasn't the waffle-making father, or the trusted ally Peter had just spent the evening with, yet he wasn't the fearsome killer he had fought to the death with before either. No. He felt like a hybrid of the many different faces of Gabriel Gray, like a mosaic that had toughened over time to prevent itself from breaking apart. Yet sadness trickled undeniably through the cracks in the design.

Peter had no clue how to process all this.

So, unable to control his expression or shut his mouth, he just gaped at the newcomer, too dumbfounded to make a sound. He waited anxiously for something to start making sense, for the other guy to speak first, or for his own instincts to kick in and rescue him from the ringing stalemate that only got worse by the second.

Clearing his throat, Sylar spoke so quietly that Peter could barely hear him. “I don't know how long I can stay.”

His expression was so guarded that it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. It had been a long time since Peter had felt locked out from him in that way. Dark, shadowed eyes flitted over the empath from head to toe; searing a painstaking path into him while drinking in everything there was to find and more.

It felt so invasive that his skin prickled all over and he wanted to hide, to cover himself or protest, but none of his bodily functions responded. He wouldn't be surprised to know Sylar had picked up x-ray vision on his travels along with other... talents. Jesus.

Finally, the visitor's eyes returned to Peter's, softening slightly as he released his verdict. “You look good.” The ghost of a smile danced on the precipice of his lips, before dying without ever taking shape. It only lasted a moment, but that was long enough.

There he was. Just then, Peter swore he'd caught a glimpse of his friend lurking below the surface of this scruffy stranger. It made him feel safe enough to recover his voice and begin to inch closer.

“ _You_ look... different.” A nervous grin invited itself into being as he loosely waved a hand at his chin. “Where did this come from?”

A glint of surprise sparked through Sylar's sombre demeanor, as if humour had been the last thing in the world he'd expected to find. Then his lips lifted again beneath the tangle of his beard. “You like it? You should see yours.”

Peter startled like he'd received an electric shock. The mention of himself was as unexpected as being doused with a bucket of ice water, both as thrilling and unpleasant. From experience, this topic never proceeded good news. He wasn't sure if it was his reaction that caused the intruder to instantly clam up again. Not that he should complain about the end of the pleasantries; he doubted Sylar had come all this way just to catch up and trade grooming tips. No.

The wind might have been halted in its course: but the chill, the night, or maybe something else entirely bit Peter enough that he rubbed his arms in a weak attempt to generate warmth. He rocked on the spot slightly, gnawing his lower lip.

He didn't want to know, but he knew he had to ask. “Wh-when are you from?”

Said time traveller twitched, as if fighting the desire to lie or look away. Instead he stood tall, defiant in the face of his words that threatened to shatter the Earth beneath Peter.

“Six years from now.”

_Six years...?_ It didn't take long for this to sink in and spread through Peter like ink in water, to spin itself into a growing web of worry inside. Countless fears, countless mistakes, countless possibilities could have transpired by then... In the back of his mind, he touched upon the festering anxieties he had been harbouring since the night Claire had jumped from that Ferris Wheel. Since Renautas had first crawled out of the woodwork. Of course it had only been a matter of time...

Suddenly unsteady on his feet, Peter scrubbed a hand over his face and drifted back to the wall encircling the rooftop. He leaned on it because it was the only thing to catch him up here besides Sylar, and he wasn't sure his legs would sustain him for the rest of this conversation.

He struggled to speak while his chest only constricted further. “That's not long...” Not long for the world to come tumbling down, anyway, for why else would Sylar be here? A future worth meddling in was never going to bring good news, a fact that had been hanging in the air since the very second he had arrived. Damn it.

Suddenly he couldn't bring himself to look at his visitor. Even when the guy appeared beside him, imitating his stance with both elbows on the wall and his eyeline cast out upon the horizon. He stood so close that his arm brushed Peter's sleeve, sending shivers rippling out from the point of contact.

“It is when you've lived it.”

A thriving city frozen in time was stretched out into the horizon before the two men. It probably looked astounding, but Peter wouldn't know. He couldn't even take it in.

From his peripheral vision alone, he could sense the unfamiliarity of the other man's overgrown, dark hair spilling forth over his face; the wrongness to the way he was standing, as if he was attempting to relax but had long forgotten how. They were only slight details but they made all the difference in transforming Peter's friend into someone nearly unrecognisable to him. It felt like a dream, but he would never even have conceived such changes if he'd ever thought to imagine a new version of Sylar. So this was real. Wasn't it?

It was not the first time Peter had known of a bleak future that needed changing but still he felt so hopelessly out of his depth. He dreaded what was to come and he felt painfully small beside this all-knowing prophet from the future. But even though this wasn't the same man Peter had grown close to so infamously, he couldn't deny that he still cared about him. They'd lived through lifetimes together, after all.

Quietly, he cleared his throat. “Are you doing okay?”

Usually about now Sylar would have worked up a witty response, no matter the truth. Instead, this weathered veteran only dipped his head and chased a crack in the wall with his finger, remembering a life that Peter didn't know. He replied gently, as if unaware of even doing so.

“I'm... surviving.”

Peter wished his heart wasn't racing a mile a minute and making it even more difficult to concentrate than it already was. Setting his jaw for the return impact that was likely to floor him, he cast his gaze down the side of the building in hopes of summoning courage. It didn't work. But if this man from the future's message was important enough for him to risk the time/space continuum by coming back here, then it had to be important enough for Peter to put his reservations aside for. Right?

“What about everyone else?”

Even on a good day, being landed with so much more responsibility would have been a lot to handle. But right now? When he'd barely had time to work on his new abilities or come to terms with his recent... affliction? He wasn't even sure he had it in him to see this through.

But he still had to know.

With tense, disjointed movements, Sylar released a wistful exhale and pulled back, only to then sit on the wall with his back to the drop without a hint of the anxiousness Peter had grown to expect from his friend if he was ever to suggest such a thing. Cautiously, he followed suit, perching beside the tense form of the time traveller. He linked his fingers between his knees while the other guy raked his nails along his thighs again, scratching patterns into the worn fabric of his jeans.

It was always surreal to feel the workings of fate re-stitching themselves in moments like these, when the world hung on every tiny motion. Peter was physically aware of an invisible barrier that was palpable between himself and Sylar: six years that divided the pair from this moment and the same two men who had sprawled out for hours together this evening without a semblance of personal boundaries. It hurt.

Swallowing harshly, Sylar looked up while swiping tangled strands of hair off his face – a familiar motion that didn't go unnoticed. Now unobstructed, there was no denying the fact that it really _was_ Sylar beneath the untended appearance, but that wasn't what made Peter nearly lose his balance on the wall. It was the look on that face. One so sorry, so gut-wrenchingly sincere that it sent a fresh wave of goosebumps cascading down the smaller man's form as if the rain was still falling.

And suddenly he knew he would regret this moment. But he couldn't stop it from happening.

“I didn't come back here to save the world, Peter.” The visitor's confession was pained. Apologetic. A coarse whisper that ran straight through Peter more powerfully than a blast of telekinesis. “I came back to save you.”

If time hadn't already stopped, he would have assumed it was the ludicrousness of that statement that had put the world on pause.

“ _Me_?” He repeated. It sounded just as insane the second time.

Staring perplexed and wide-eyed at the other man, he was unable to consciously make sense of it even while his lungs stuttered and his blood began to rush louder in his ears. He only managed an audible “But wh...?” before his voice failed him. His breath caught. Pressure roared inside his head, his thoughts spiraled and the moon shone innocently overhead, a cruel reminder of just moments ago when hiding up there had seemed like the worst case scenario should things get out of control...

Peter blanched, barely able to form the words. “The... the hunger. My abilities.”

It wasn't even a question, because there was no room for doubt or anything else besides icy dread and numbing denial that knocked the world out from under him and left him to fall in slow motion. He wanted to deny it more than anything, but the older man's features only tightened in sympathy. In confirmation.

Struck numb, he wobbled dangerously on the edge of the rooftop. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't speak. Shakily lifting his hands, Peter could feel the undying current of power crawling just beneath his skin, coiling through his veins like smoke. It might be out of sight for now, but it was never gone. Not for long. Never again.

“You tried so hard to control it.”

He had rarely seen Sylar look prouder than he did now. But then the resolve the man had been maintaining so well eroded right before Peter, and he was no longer wise and composed. His brows pulled together; his expression fractured; and a flush of colour began to bloom around his eyes despite his attempts to stop it. His suffering was undeniable: a soul-deep understanding that nobody else on the planet could possess.

“I know how afraid you were, and how badly you wanted to fight it. But...” Sylar covered the crack in his voice with a fleeting dip of his head. “All that power is too much for anyone to hold for long without... losing themselves.”

Peter was too horrified to steady his ragged breathing, to object, to cry. He wanted to deny this truth like the idealistic optimist he'd used to be! But he wasn't that guy anymore. He had never felt so repulsive in his life, so ashamed, so trapped within his own existence than he did right now because _of course_ this was going to happen!

And the worst thing about it was that he'd known this, deep down, since the moment his abilities had first returned to him with a vengance. It had been foolish to try and convince himself it would go any other way.

He wanted to recoil when Sylar's hand curled around his then, because although the affection was soothing he resented it for bringing him closer to the edge of a breakdown.

He held on tight anyway.

Sylar spoke softly, his voice strained and his words tumbling over themselves as they were cast across the expanse of the rooftop. “I'm so sorry. I'd never have told you this if it wasn't so important, but it is – I _had_ to come back.” He faltered, closing his eyes as if in pain.

Peter's heart bruised his chest with every thumping beat, with every second he continued to let this person pick at the growing wound of the unknown, but he couldn't go back now. He couldn't evade the fog that clouded his senses or stop the ground from falling out from under him. He couldn't tear his gaze from the whole, terrible story unfolding for him as if it were written across the time traveller's face.

“W-what did I do?” He breathed, for it was all he could manage.

Sylar shook his head, refusing to open his eyes or put Peter out of his misery with a straightforward answer. “You don't understand. It wasn't your fault, you weren't _you._ ” Breathing heavily, a flush began to bloom across his face, his grip tightened until it hurt and his lips struggled to frame the words as if they were as sore to expel as a mouthful of burning coals. “It's been a few months, since. And I should have... done something before now. Been braver. But I wasn't, I was selfish. I was afraid of what I could lose so I just stood back and let it happen, and I just... I can't live with that any longer.”

The following silence was deafening. When other man eventually pried his eyes open, it was to bore a look so desolate upon Peter that it all but stripped him bare. Oh... The first drop of sparkling moonlight spilled free from his lashes and ran down his face, closely followed by the second, but he ignored them as if they were nothing, only squeezing Peter's hand tighter in his own.

“And neither can you.”

Peter wasn't even sure anymore if his heart was breaking more for himself or for Sylar.

It wasn't as if he'd only found out that his future self was a scarred terrorist – as if that wasn't bad enough. It wasn't even like when he had found out that _he_ was the foretold exploding man who would decimate New York City. No. It was so much worse. Was _this_ what Hiro had seen once upon a time? Why he had acted differently with Peter ever since the Sullivan Brother's Carnival...? Everything he'd feared, all his worst nightmares were mapped out before him as the ticking countdown brought the storm ahead ever closer, and he was expected to – what? Accept it with open arms?! But that wasn't even the worst of it.

It shook him to the core to witness this man so openly wounded, so close to the end of his tether. It wasn't only because he could feel Sylar's pain as if he were drawing it out through their touch, but because Sylar was supposed to be the strong one out of them. He rarely broke down in company without the aid of some ego-boosting bravado. His tears always hurt the most because they were so rare. It was always gut-wrenching every time he crumbled, when he was usually so proud. And currently he was whittled down to an unforseen, broken state, depleated like an exposed nerve that had been rubbed raw for too long.

Peter didn't want to know what he'd done that was so bad it had beaten the likes of Gabriel Gray into surrender. He didn't want to know how many deaths were on his hands, how many families broken, lives ruined, dreams shattered far before their time... He didn't need the details to know it was awful, awful enough for Sylar to make this journey through time to prevent it.

He would have cried in solidarity with his friend, if he wasn't far beyond that capability at present. He would have feared that the blazing inferno forming inside was another explosion in the works, a neuclar heat that would consume his limbs and scorch his skin until there was nothing left... if his abilities hadn't temporarily shut down in shock. And if he wasn't already so familiar with crushing despair.

Sylar's voice lowered, his grip softened and he rubbed his thumb gently over Peter's knuckles. “It's natural to be afraid, Peter, but you don't have to be, anymore. I can help you.” He vowed, bravely soldiering on with his mission as if another tear wasn't trickling down the trail of its predecessors and carving another gauge in Peter's chest. Maybe he wasn't even aware of it at all? “You just need to let me.”

The hotel rooftop wasn't particularly small and there was nowhere else Peter could go in the world – nowhere safe to hide a ticking time bomb – and his natural instinct was to stay and tend to this person who needed care and support but _fuck,_ he just needed to put some distance between himself and everything else!

Shaking his head desperately, he tugged his hand free from Sylar's and staggered to his feet, floundering like a hopeless ice skater who couldn't let go of the barrier. He rubbed a hand over his face and through his hair while gulping down lungfuls of stale air that did nothing whatsoever to calm him.

Sylar drew him back to the present as if from somewhere very far away. “Do you know what I would've given for someone to give me this chance? How many times I wished I could go back to before I'd ever killed a man...?” His heavy brow drew low as if it could hide the pain swirling behind his eyes, and his hands squeezed the edge of the wall as if it wasn't obvious he was fighting the urge to reach out again. “It doesn't have to happen the same way twice. You _can_ get better.”

Peter still felt like he was falling. Wavering on the spot, he pressed a hand over his cramping heart and squinted at his visitor. It was only when he made to speak that he noticed just _how_ impossibly tight his throat was and how dangerously close to passing out he was. That, or throwing up right here at his companion's feet.

“H-how? You just said so tonight – there's no cure!” His lips were trembling and his voice was rough but pathetic, caught between the contractions of his ribcage. Fuck, he could be having a heart attack for all he knew! If the power to regenerate hadn't been the only thing currently keeping him off the floor.

“I also said you don't have to go through this alone.”

Instantly Peter was transported to the shadows of a leaking, cold bridge, where Sylar had been kneeling before him and promised he wouldn't let Peter drag him down with his madness. A promise that had meant nothing, he realised. That would be worn away by the sands of time until Peter eventually lost his mind and burned Sylar along with him until he became this weathered, beaten echo of who he once was...

“You're _not_ alone.” Sylar pressed, louder this time.

Shame-faced, the empath turned away to press the heels of his hand to his pounding forehead. He just couldn't handle the sight of that man anymore, to know he had broken him down and ruined him along with everyone else. So _this_ was it, then? _This_ was how far Sylar would go for him? It made accompanying him to the moon seem insignificant in comparison.

“I know how you're feeling.” Peter's back scalded under that relentless gaze. He recognised it by touch alone. “I know it's scary, and I know you're upset, but this is about so much more than you and me. You can't withstand the Hunger without help – nobody can!” The man might have appeared angry, and Peter might have been frightened of the passion in his voice if he wasn't so familiar with him. “You thought you could do it on your own last time. You didn't want me to get too close, but I can _take_ it – I _want_ to be there.”

Peter failed to stop trembling or swallow the rising lump in his throat, just as the time traveller failed to hide the fact that he was pleading.

“Let me in, Peter. Please.”

Oh god. If he hadn't already felt as awful as he could about the similar conversation back on the fire escape, Peter sure did now. Even through the haze of affliction, he was aware of it. That here, right now: _this_ was his second chance. The do-over, the opportunity to change it all and do it right this time. All he had to do was turn around, nod his head, make the next move.

Could it really be that easy...?

Releasing some of the tension in his shoulders, Peter dropped his hands and turned just enough to peek back at his companion. Cast half in the shadow of an immobile cloud, just the sight of this all-knowing survivor from the future reminded him all over again that there was so much he didn't know about this version of him: a bruised fragment of a once grand figure, tormented, bound by the very emotions he had used to condemn. Peter felt wretched beside him. Helpless. Inadequate. He truly wanted to take comfort in his advice, like a kid trusts a grown up when they say there's not really a monster hiding under the bed. But Peter wasn't a kid anymore. And they both knew his monster was real.

Blinking rapidly, he ground his teeth to fight back the sudden, overwhelming urge to scream. “He doesn't know you're here. Does he?”

Sylar's head twitched to the side slightly, as if he didn't understand. Peter knew him far too well to fall for that.

Slowly, the watchmaker withdrew into himself until the corners of his mustache held a weight to them once more and his eyes glazed over in guilt. His grip loosened on the wall and he licked lingering tears from his lips in the exact same way that always ripped Peter's insides to ribbons. “He would've... _you_ would only have tried to stop me. I couldn't risk that.”

Releasing all the air in his lungs, Peter closed his eyes for the duration of a heartbeat. It was all wrong. His relationship with Sylar wasn't supposed to be a weapon! It wasn't supposed to be a curse! Their bond, their friendship – it was supposed to be a _good_ thing! Not a chain to tether each other to a fate such as this!

He meant to cross the distance to his friend and applaud him on his bravery, apologise, provide comfort, maybe kneel beside him, rub his back or hug him until his crying ceased, knowing _he_ was the cause of such despair. But instead, the next thing Peter knew he was retreating further from Sylar with both hands clenched at his sides. He glowered at the broken man, just barely holding back the burn eroding his eyes, his throat and his heart.

“Why did you stay all these years?” He growled, far from gently. It wasn't what he wanted to say but he couldn't help it and he couldn't contain the overspill of feelings that had nowhere else to go but out in any form they could get. “Why did you stay with me if I turned out the way you say I did?! How could you have let it get so far?!”

Normally about now the Sylar Peter knew would start to rise to the fight, even under the pretense that he wasn't going to fall for it. But the Sylar before him seemed to have no fight left in him to give.

He only dropped his eyes, swiped at his cheeks with his knuckles and rose to his feet. Tucking his hands into his jeans pockets; he stood open, bruised and unguarded before the might of Peter's temper. The motion was well rehearsed, a routine borne of a life Peter could only wish hadn't existed.

Finally, it all became too much. He didn't want to shout at this man who seemed to know nothing else but shouting. He wanted to comfort him to compensate for the blatant lack of comfort in his life. He didn't want to be anything like the monster it sounded like he had become, because he wasn't! He _wasn't_ like him! He _couldn't_ be! He didn't want to cry. To be so weak. But you can't have everything in life.

“You were too powerful to be left alone, Peter. Nobody would've stood a chance –”

“But _YOU_ would!” Peter finally splintered apart, throwing his hands out before him.

He was helpless to stop the flood that poured out from within like a crack in a dam. It was cruel to dump so much responsibility on someone else, to shirk the blame and try to spread the pain it wrought, but Peter couldn't stop himself. He wasn't sure anymore if it was his own raw emotion fueling him on or if he was tainted by the touch of an ability. He could barely even refrain from storming over and hauling furiously on the front of his opponent's coat, if only to get more of a reaction from him than that same fucking kindness, patience and understanding. Such respect was more damaging than a fist fight could ever have been.

“ _YOU_ have enough power to stop me!” Chest heaving, hands gesturing wildly, he gave flight to the sudden swell of emotion that spilled forth from his lips uncontained.

“Peter -”

“You could have spared all the people I killed!”

“Peter, stop -”

“How could you _do_ this to me?! Let me turn into a monster?! You could have taken me down at any time! Why _DIDN'T_ you?!” The strained roar rang out around the world, the only sound in existence. It seemed to echo off the emptiness of the rooftop, rebounding back into Peter ten times more horribly than how it had left him.

Sylar didn't even try to defend himself. It was another facet of many that worked to remind Peter that he really wasn't the same man he knew in this time. Even when he spoke, when he shook his head in defeat and his eyebrows furrowed in regret, it was a concession, not an excuse. And when he should have been shouting back or fighting his piece, the only weapon he called upon was a tender, sad smile that meant Peter knew nothing at all.

“Because I couldn't.”

“Why not?!”

Sylar's lips parted long before the confession slipped its way out. “Because you're my friend, Peter.” He held a touch of humility about him as he just stood there, hands in his pockets while patience leaked into his features. “I love you.” Somehow he was impossibly calm, quiet and sincere while the world broke down around the only two souls who were awake to witness it.

He made it seem easy. Peter might have envied that, had he not been so distracted by the words this man was saying or the beautiful, painful, misplaced sentiment behind them.

The fight fled him instantly, his already aching heart shattering anew. Sylar refused to break eye contact for this most intimate of reactions, and in the next moment Peter's face was on fire and he was blinking blurrily at the ground, unable to feel his legs. He couldn't even hide his reaction behind the partition of his hair because he was naked beneath the gaze of the other man who knew him more than he even knew himself.

When was the last time he had heard those words? Months ago, at least, if not longer, probably when his mother had tacked it onto the end of a phone call; it had been years since someone had really meant it, even long before he'd been kicked out of his own family. He had never heard such a declaration from Sylar before, who would be furious if he knew what had just transpired. Of course Peter was already aware that he cared, but actually hearing it aloud felt so new, so humbling that he didn't even know how to accept it. But the pieces still didn't fit together properly. He just couldn't understand.

How could anyone love him after seeing what he would become?

He could easily have been frozen in time like the rest of the world. He couldn't move, or speak, or even find a way to express how much it meant to hear such endearment meant for him, or that he felt the same in return even though he didn't deserve it. He hoped this was evident without words, because he sure as hell couldn't vocally reciprocate it, he couldn't deny it, and he couldn't pull away or do anything at all when Sylar slowly approached him.

“It's going to be okay.” The watchmaker promised. It was soft and tender but Peter didn't want to hear it, because it sounded too much like parting words and he wasn't ready to say goodbye. “You're the strongest person I've ever known. If anyone can change the future, it's you.”

Despite everything he'd just found out and everything he knew to be true, Peter truly wanted to believe him. He nodded desperately, for words still failed him. He was just a passenger, a prisoner in his own body, a hopeless kid who shied away beneath the terror of his own shadow.

Between one panic-stricken heartbeat and the next, Sylar shed the remaining strands of composure and came in close. His hand enveloped Peter's wrist so lightly it tickled and caused every hair on his arms to stand on end. In comparison to the other man's hold, Peter realised just _how_ much of a trembling wreck he'd become.

His stomach flipped, but he wasn't sure if it was a delayed reaction to what he'd just heard or due to Sylar's free hand unexpectedly tipping his face up. He couldn't help but flinch, to a slight hesitation on Sylar's part. The empath scanned the other man's hazy features incredulously, but he seemed both unconcerned and unashamed to then sift his fingers through Peter's hair and be caught doing it. The caress was unfamiliar, out of character, and felt like it belonged to someone other than him, but Peter was far too humbled to stop it.

Rooted to the spot, all he could see was a close, blurry shape towering over him. But even then he felt the purring concentration of a time-traveller who was making the most of his second chance at this night. Sylar pushed back a dark lock of hair from obscuring Peter's eyes with the air of having stopped himself from doing it until now.

“You once gave me the strength to be better. You were there for me when I thought there was no way out.” It was barely a murmur, followed by the exhale of a great burden being lifted. “Let me do the same for you.”

Peter's knees might have given way then and there had the other man not been holding him up. Instead he surrendered when two large, warm hands cupped his face exactly as they had in an over-written future that ceased to be long ago. His breath caught in his chest when his vision was obscured completely, and then two thumbs trailed along his cheekbones and a lingering, bristly press of lips touched his forehead.

Winded to the bone, Peter's hands clung tightly to the other man's coat without his input. He fought to summon the strength to vocally respond but he still didn't want to let him go. He wasn't ready to deal with this alone, to become the sole guardian of his putrid secret. But he had to say thank you for the chance and loyalty he had been given. He had to apologise for the pain he'd caused. He had to say or do anything at all to try and stem the bleeding between himself and his friend before he lost the chance!

But then a cold breeze washed over his face. The world lurched on its axis. Then the rush of time tore at Peter's sensitized form like knives. Cars beeped too loudly in the distance and a plane roared overhead, but he was far too ill and far too dizzy to take any of it in.

He hadn't even noticed he'd closed his eyes until he opened them upon the space that hadn't been empty a moment before.

Letting out a series of hitching gasps, Peter crumbled now that nobody was here to see him fall. Suddenly it was all too real. Shivering uncontrollably, he pressed a hand over his mouth and bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood, but it didn't stop his teeth from chattering and it didn't keep the dread at bay. He was so painfully alone, so wounded, so overwhelmed, so frightened and so touched by the devotion that he didn't deserve and he couldn't keep it all inside any longer.

Sylar was gone. Lost forever beneath the overwriting current of time. The only evidence that he had even existed at all was the bruise bleeding deeper into Peter's heart, the splitting pressure flooding his eyes and the kiss that was still drying on his skin.

He was definitely going to throw up this time.

***

 

Sylar didn't know what woke him. It didn't really matter anyway. All he knew was that he jolted into consciousness with an uncomfortable knot in his gut before even realising he'd fallen asleep.

It was cold in here. Blinking at unfamiliar wallpaper, it took a second for his pulse to slow and his cognitive functions to be restored to him. Ah, yes. The hotel. Peter's lessons. The fight... With a sleepy groan, he bundled deeper into his duvet and rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes. He was awake now, and the unsettling whirlpool inside that always accompanied a falling out was not going to let him drift off again anytime soon. He didn't know how long he'd been out, but he wouldn't guess more than an hour, if that.

Pretending he hadn't been putting it off until now, Sylar chanced a peek at the second bed in the room. Empty. Fuck. The sight concerned him even more than he thought it would.

He knew he should have gone after him. He shouldn't have let Peter out of his sight in the state he'd been in. The emotionally sensitive superhuman was impulsive on the best of days, but after the betrayal that had ruined the evening...? He could only imagine. And imagine he had. The former killer hated the thought that he would regret his decision to give Peter the space he'd wanted. It was going to haunt him, he was sure.

With a worried exhale, Sylar pushed himself into a sitting position, shivering in his nightwear as he cast his eyes around the dark and vacant room. It felt even more unpleasant to be in here when he was in here alone. Although that was the least of his problems. It was raining beyond the open window: untouched the way he'd left it, which explained the draft in any case. It wasn't an encouraging sign. Maybe even less so than Peter's undisturbed bed.

Sylar hovered in indecision. He lingered in his bed for perhaps a little too long, thinking, musing, and thinking some more.

He doubted Peter had gone far. He hadn't been _that_ angry, right? He knew the risk of venturing out into civilization before he was ready, and Sylar felt confident enough to assume Peter hadn't tempted such an outcome. No. That wasn't what troubled him.

The biggest issue was that he knew exactly how Peter felt right at this moment. The hopelessness, the denial, the terror of having just been diagnosed with an incuarble, volatile condition and then suffering through the depths of it alone. Sylar knew what that could do to a person. What it _had_ done. And letting the same fate that had befallen him befall his friend was even more terrifying than the thought of a Peter Petrelli on the loose with his abilities unchecked.

Sylar raked his hands through his hair, aware of time crawling past as if he were examining a clock face through a magnifying lens. The city droned on beyond the window as it continued to gape at him; empty, open, taunting the arrival of his roommate in the very next second! ...The _next_ second... okay, maybe the _next_ one?

The tension became so taut that Sylar couldn't stand it any longer. He wasn't going to sit up fretting like a worried housewife for fuck's sake! He wasn't his mother. He wasn't powerless. And since when had he become the type of guy who would shy from confronting his problems?!

Just as he had built himself up enough to haul the bedcovers back and climb to his feet, Sylar hesitated again. He hadn't even made it one step closer to the window before catching sight of a crack of light beneath the bathroom door.

Great. Now he felt like an idiot.

The feeling didn't last for long, though. Instead, the courage he had been forming turned to dust in his fingers when the noises of the city tuned out on their own. And then all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart and the faint sounds of what might have been coughing from the other side of the door.

Peter.

*

Gasping in air, Peter staggered unseeingly to his feet, catching himself on the sink. His chest was aching and his throat was burning, but even though he was still as certain now as he had been on the rooftop that he was going to be sick, nothing but a sporadic trickle of tears came out no matter how long he kneeled before the toilet. Not pizza, not bile, not the swirling thoughts that were clogging him up inside. He was broken. His head was blocked like shaken bottle of soda that had no way to release the pressure.

He was shivering all over, felt cold and clammy except for the pinprick of fire that continued to simmer on his forehead. The reminder. The truth. The touch of his future that wouldn't leave him alone. The mark it left had to be visible: it would be a scar he would carry until time came and went, until he had long lost himself on the way...

Still trying to steady his breathing, Peter splashed cold water over his face in hopes of cleansing away the mix of snot, tears and the grime of the day. He couldn't feel the water as it seemed to fall in slow motion, gathering in his cupped hands only to trickle away like the pretense of control he had over his own peace of mind. He pressed his palms over his stinging eyes, but it didn't ease the pain throbbing behind them and it didn't stop his tears from forming.

The blackness only provided a perfect backdrop for his own face to swim into being in his mind's eye – but harsher, meaner, more gaunt, scarred, adorned with a monster of a beard that somehow was even wilder than Future Sylar's had been... and then Sylar was there too, and he was crying, and he was chained to Peter's side as he carnaged but he _still_ wouldn't get angry, because he had given everything there was to give already.

Peter couldn't believe he had ever been so stupid as to bring this on himself. Every decision he'd hoped was for the best had only brought him closer to the edge all along. All he'd wanted was to no longer be a burden! To stop getting in everyone's way! Was that too much to ask?!

How was he supposed to know it would only do the opposite?

Sniffling, he once more gripped the edge of the sink, forcing himself to look up and stare into the slightly blurry, unforgiving depths of his reflection. The young man staring back at him looked pale, tearful, unsurprisingly ill. But aside from that it was the exact same face he'd seen every day in the mirror. It was also the same face that had visited him from the future once before, only without the scar that still gave him chills to remember. When would he become the man that Future Sylar had known? How long did he have before he was lost entirely...? The thought was absurd, beyond terrifying.

But... already Peter was sure he could see some distortion in himself that hadn't been there this morning. Maybe a subtle change to the swirl of his irises, or a slight harshness to the cut of his brow that made him look older, somehow...

The initial rush of nausea had finally passed, it seemed, but that didn't mean the sickness didn't sink down to Peter's bones, a pain that no amount of regeneration would be able to ease. He just couldn't wash the after-image of a bedraggled and submissive Sylar from his corneas, no matter how much water he splashed on them. He had been so broken... had risked so much to come back here. How could he believe so much in Peter to make it right when Peter couldn't even believe in himself?

Watching his reflection visibly tremble, he couldn't tear his gaze from the dirty old mirror. This creature he was to become, the power-mad killer: apparently he wouldn't only ruin the lives of everyone around him, but also the only person who cared enough to stick by him through everything. Peter didn't know how he could look at his friend again, knowing what he knew now. Sylar had said to let him in, to accept his help and split the burden, but how could Peter possibly share this agony with someone he never wanted to hurt again...?

He was so swept up in the crest of his fears that he never heard the door open or shuffling footsteps approach, until he caught a glimpse of a second pained reflection in the mirror.

Startling, Peter was suddenly flustered, embarrassed to be caught in such a state. It was far too late and too obvious to scrub at his eyes now, but that didn't stop him from going through the motions. “Hey. Sorry, d-did I wake you?” He coughed to clear his throat, tearing himself away from the sink only for his legs to nearly give way under him. “I was just... uh...”

He floundered for an excuse, any explanation that didn't tread too close to the tornado of the truth but came up with nothing. He was still desperately wracking his brain for something to say when a hand stroked softly along his shoulders, turning his stomach to lead mid-somersault.

“I know.”

Skin crawling at such understanding and sympathy and kindness, Peter shivered beneath the touch. For a wild moment he wanted to either lash out or lean into the other man while that face swam into focus at the edges of his vision. Tousled and just woken. Young. Unguarded. It had only been a few hours, but Peter suddenly realised how terribly he'd missed this present-day version of his friend.

And how terrible he felt to be near him.

*

Sylar had never been much good at playing nurse – that was Peter's forte – but he knew it was always best to remain calm in such situations. At least on the outside. Fucking hell...

The empath was shaking like a leaf, his face glistening beneath a film of perspiration. What the hell had happened to him? Where had he gone? What had he _done_ since Sylar had last seen him?! A quick visual assessment of both the man in question and the surrounding area revealed not one speck of blood (either his own or a third party's) and at least for now that was enough for Sylar to bypass that train of thought and focus on the matter at hand.

Although, he'd probably have been better equipped to clean up a gruesome crime scene than to untangle the maelstrom that existed within Peter Petrelli.

Trying to excude some idea that he knew what he was doing, Sylar fussed over the unstable form of his companion; steadying his balance with one hand while touching his clammy face with the other. “You're freezing -”

“I'm fine.” Peter shrugged himself free and forced a smile so fake it wouldn't even have fooled Claire in her most self-absorbed state. Sylar masked a gasp when Peter wobbled on the spot before fumbling for the sink again to keep himself from collapsing. He couldn't even stand on his own?

“Are you sick?” The former killer asked briskly, shoving back the concern that threatened to eclipse his concentration like a hood that kept falling over his eyes. He grabbed after Peter, closely examining him for any sign of a superhuman possession under the surface. Nothing. Just a pallid, haunted face, red-hued eyes and a frown that was trying to hide it all.

“Don't!” Peter grunted between laboured breaths, tugging free from Sylar's ministrations. At least, as far as he could go in this tiny closet of a bathroom when he was wedged between the sink, the bath and Sylar.

The watchmaker caught the smaller man again when his legs buckled, swallowing with difficulty. It was much harder not to rise to Peter's level of hysteria than he had first anticipated. “What happened? Did you try to use an ability?” He deliberately didn't ask which one.

Instead of answering, Peter only wriggled free from his restraints once more to balance shakily on his own two feet. “Stop. Stop it.” He wiped a hand over his face and roughly cleared his throat, but he wouldn't have fooled anyone. His dark-rimmed eyes darted everywhere around the room except at Sylar, polished with a sparkling sheen of tears that hovered precariously on the brink of falling.

That knot in the watchmaker's gut only grew heavier. He tried his best to ignore it along with more guilt that snaked around his windpipe, but he couldn't help but worry. All this...? Was it because of the fight? It seemed far-fetched, but Peter was especially fragile at the moment. Sylar had never seen him behave like this – not even when they still hated each other because he would never have tried to help him back then.

But clearly Peter wasn't in his right mind at present, and Sylar couldn't _not_ help him. “C'mon.” He instructed, pulling the smaller man to his feet when he stumbled yet again, then wrestling with the impossible task of putting a Petrelli where he didn't want to go: in this case, seated on the edge of the bath tub.

*

If he hadn't already felt claustrophic due to the events of the evening, Peter was damn near smothered beneath what felt like a dozen hands touching his waist, shoulders and arms at once. It was just too much considering he'd already passed the point of breaking days ago.

“Don't, I said I'm fine – I don't need – I don't wanna sit down, I...”

His protests only bounced off the other man, his attempts to escape were ignored, and the last thing he needed was to feel even more helpless. His patience was waning, his temper flaring, and he hated that he was aware of his abilities creeping out of hiding like a growing leak in the ceiling.

Sylar's hands itched on Peter's skin, fitting perfectly into the imprints left behind from the man on the rooftop. They scarred him even deeper, and they were tender and they were caring but they hurt because Peter didn't deserve to be treated with such care – he didn't _want_ it! And now that he knew the truth he could see it only too clearly: how far this would go, where it would end up, how long Sylar would indulge him and his petty tantrums until it was too late for either of them...

“Don't _TOUCH_ me!” He snarled, once again wrenching himself free to waver on the edge of the bath on his own. The guilt was already unbearable. The addition of Sylar's offended look was nothing in the long run.

“What's the matter with you? I'm just trying to help!”

“I don't _want_ your help!”

“Well you're getting it anyway –”

“ _Don't!_ Just _stop_!” Finally, Peter erupted. “The whole point of all this was so I could finally take care of _myself_ for once – don't you get it?! I don't want you running after me!”

Finally, Sylar fell still. The corners of his mouth turned down the exact same way they had just minutes ago, without the tangle of a beard to mask it. Peter only felt more hollowed, more ill at the undeniable reminder of what this man would become. Of what _he_ would make him.

The watchmaker set his jaw and rose to his full height miles above Peter. For the briefest of moments he thought he'd won, and simultaneously mourned and welcomed Sylar's absence. But the guy didn't leave the room. Instead when he turned on his heel it was only to summon an empty glass from the cabinet before even reaching the sink.

Groaning, Peter splintered apart all over again. He tuned out the rushing of water while he coughed around the fireball that was still lodged in his throat.

“Here, drink this, you'll feel better -”

“I said STOP it!” Peter yelled, swiping his hand at the offering.

He was too far away to reach. But still there was a _crack_ , then the echoing shatter of glass off the floor, then water leaked out over the tiles. But it wasn't the broken drink that halted Peter's rampage in its tracks, or the aftershocks of telekinesis that lingered in his fingertips.

It was the sight of his ally thrown back off his feet into the wall. ...Shit...

*

All the breath was knocked out of Sylar. He wasn't sure where he was or why he was here, or what the spot of heat on the back of his head meant. But he knew he was upset about something. Or... some _one_?

The room span before his eyes while the sudden pain in his skull eased, the wound slowly healing over. He rode out the formatting of his orientation with a gasp while loose fragments of information floated around him, just outside of his reach. Until it all came crashing back at once and he found his focus grounded in the other person in the room.

Eyes blown wide, hair hanging in his face, Peter was frozen with his hand out before him as if he'd just thrown a punch. Was that why Sylar's chest was hurting? Why that pain wasn't healing? The ungrateful son of a bitch.

Of course Sylar sympathised with Peter's affliction. He understood. He got it. But that didn't mean he had to endure much more of this with a smile and a curtsy. There was only so long he could play a temper-less nursemaid before something had to give. After everything he'd put up with _this_ was how it was going to be...? No. Enough.

*

Peter struggled to unlock his throat or make a sound. The last strands of his anger were already swirling down the drain. That wasn't the issue now. Not when he couldn't undo what he'd just done to the only person in the world who would stand by him beyond the end.

He hadn't meant to hurt him. He never meant to hurt anybody, but it had happened so fast and outside of his control. He could barely even remember getting so angry now that the fog had cleared. Holy shit. Had it started already? What if he was already losing himself? Was this how he began to bully Sylar into the depleted echo he had been on the roof...? Peter's eyes stung furiously at the thought.

Mortified, he stared after his friend as the guy pushed himself off the wall, revealing a crack in a tile behind his head. With a groan Sylar caught his balance, and like a snapshot through time he was replaced by an imposing shadow atop a school stadium just seconds before Peter had hauled them both over the edge.

Slowly, the empath's arm fell to his side. Retaliation crackled in the air around the former killer's form, rebounding off the compact walls of the bathroom. He could easily fight back with a flick of one finger, yet Peter didn't brace himself. He didn't need to, even though he wished he would. Because instead of finding himself thrown through the other wall or battling a sudden constricted airway, Sylar did nothing. Nothing at all. Which hurt so much more than an attack would have done.

No razor sharp words or abilities came Peter's way, no forced expression expertly designed to inflict guilt. Sylar just rightened his tousled hair, raked one last talon-like glance over Peter's face, stepped over the broken glass at his feet and left the room without another word.

Tumbling a step after him, Peter's insides plummeted through the floor. He croaked out a tiny, pathetic “wait –” only for it to be swallowed by the sound of the door slamming shut on its hinges.

And then he was alone yet again, feeling ten times worse than he already thought was possible. Fuck.

Finally giving way, Peter slumped into the wall, letting gravity slip him lower until he sat curled with his knees at his chest and his head back against cool tiles. He scrubbed a hand against his aching forehead, closing his eyes against the aftermath of his countless grand mistake.

***

Fuck Peter. Fuck him and his tantrums, his stubbornness and his moodswings that could out-do even Sylar's when he had been at his worst.

Bundled deep under his bedcovers, Sylar seethed in silence. The taunting window was shut tight and he wasn't cold anymore, but he longed after the time – just minutes ago – when he had only been missing the little brat rather than resenting being anywhere near him.

Sylar refused to press the throbbing bruise on the back of his head where he'd smashed into the tiles (no! Where he'd been _pushed_ into tiles for only trying to help!). Of course it had healed over, but it still ached somehow.

Why had he even bothered? Why had he wasted so much time worrying all evening? He knew that the Hunger was partly to blame for Peter's attitude, and that fear could distort such things into ghastly shapes that consumed everything. But he hadn't _asked_ to cut into Peter's head and start all this bullshit, and he wouldn't have later offered to help him control his abilities if it wasn't so important but it _was_! But fine. Peter didn't want to be babied anymore? Let him wander out into the streets and learn the hard way how tough it could be in the real world. He would only last longer than five minutes because he was a stubborn little jackass, but no matter how long it took he'd eventually come crawling back with a mushy declaration and those puppy dog eyes of his – no doubt about it! And Sylar almost couldn't wait to send him packing and show him how it felt!

Only suckers tried to be good guys. Sylar had thought so all along. He was sick of being Mr Nice Guy who was always walked over, following along behind Petrelli like a human pooper-scooper who had nothing better to do than pick up his mistakes. He had used to be all-powerful! He hadn't answered to anybody! He was taking on one of the most powerful corporations on the globe for fuck's sake! When had he lost his nerve? When had he gone soft?

Or actually, Sylar didn't press that thought. He remembered. He remembered the day, the moment, the exact second; the smell of the wind and the length of the shadows and the touch of three fingers on his arm that had followed the rarest achievement in the world: a smile. But not just any smile, the first time it had come from someone Sylar could call 'friend'...

Seriously, _fuck_ Peter.

The mental tirade of bitter thoughts halted in its tracks at the sound of the bathroom door opening at long last. Not that Sylar had been waiting for it, though.

*

Nothing was moving amongst the shadows. The sounds of the city seemed very far away on the far side of the window. Everything inside was silent, but Peter knew from the rigid mound of Sylar's blanket that the man wasn't asleep. He was barely even breathing.

Burning with remorse, Peter hovered in the middle of the room. His throat was closed as if Sylar were throttling him without even looking, his head felt far too heavy to keep upright and his eyes were blistering with shame that he only just succeeded in blinking back. He was unable to make a sound, let alone put into words the rambling, heartfelt apology he'd crafted in the bathroom.

_...Because you're my friend, Peter... I love you..._

But how could he? Not just in six years time, but even now?

He didn't miss the organized pile in the far corner of the room: tidied pizza boxes and crusts and plates and grapes that he had left cluttered over the fire escape; and he still remembered Sylar making him corn flakes nearly every morning of purgatory; he recalled the man cutting into his head even though he didn't want to, but because Peter had asked him; he re-lived the messy escape from Mercy Heights that same day; the fact that Sylar had flown them both into the sky to explode together rather than put him down; and every single minute of his patience since.

What had Peter ever done to deserve all that from the man he'd used to despise more than anyone? For the life of him he couldn't find an answer. And now he was supposed to repay such kindness by corrupting the guy with his downfall, one way or another...? It wasn't fair. But Sylar had come all the way back through time to give him that message, and if he could trust that much in Peter then Peter could damn well trust that much in return.

There was so much he needed to tell him. He just didn't even know where to begin.

*

Sylar resented his own anticipation. His hearing was so finely tuned that he would swear he could catch the second heart in the room racing. He lay still with the precision of a hunter, allowing his ears to fill in the blank edges of the scene behind him.

He heard many intakes of breath, heard many sentences fall away before they could even begin. Resolute, he refused to give in and turn around or be manipulated like this, and so didn't move a muscle until he heard the tremor of a sigh. Then the _thump_ of shoes being kicked off into a heap. Then the rustling of clothing as Peter gave up and headed over to his bed.

Quietly, Sylar hated to admit his disappointment. So that was it? After all he'd given? After all that had happened today? Killer tomatoes, the make-shift banquet, the argument, the bathroom, and not so much as a –

Only when the mattress dipped and creaked at his back did Sylar realise he had mis-judged things. Suddenly numb with pins and needles, he remained even more still if it were possible, until the movement behind him settled and the warmth of another person tickled his back. The silence stretched on painstakingly, until it was pierced by a sound so tiny Sylar wasn't sure if he had merely imagined it.

“Sorry.”

Despite himself, Sylar tensed. It was as simple as two syllables to chase his earlier outrage into the horizon, because before he could even stage an elaborate waking up he felt himself roll onto his other side to be greeted by the back-lit landscape of Peter Petrelli's profile in the darkness.

Once more, fuck him. For always being Sylar's downfall.

*

Peter breathed out a deep, shuddering breath and his whole body sank further into Sylar's mattress. He tried not to fidget atop the coarse fabric of the duvet and looked only at a patch of damp on the ceiling above, blinking slowly as he attempted to keep himself calm.

He might have been slightly embarrassed to lay here any other night, but right now he didn't care about boundaries or masculinity or feigning strength when he had none, not when he had hit rock bottom and needed this more than anything else. It was hardly the lowest Sylar had seen him already. And apparently it wasn't going to be the worst, either. Like a child seeking refuge from a nightmare, he just needed company and to be close to someone else who could shelter him until the morning rose. If only the new day was able to provide some relief...

Sylar's pillow smelled like him. It smelled like the time traveller from the rooftop. Clenching his fists for courage, Peter finally turned his head to look at the other man, his lifeline, his friend. In the dark the shadows caught his features exactly as they had outside, except he wasn't so broken. Instead he was concerned, indignant, smouldering with emotion that tinted his skin like a fire below the surface, a fire that the older version of him had been missing.

This was the first time Peter had really _looked_ at Sylar tonight – _this_ version of him, the one who wasn't marred by lies and secrets and a hidden devastation that divided them. The empath's heart swelled painfully in his chest, and nothing he could have done would have stopped him from breaking down in tears at last.

“I'm so sorry.” He repeated, because it was all he could muster when so much else needed to be said. Sylar had no idea what was to come, and Peter couldn't bring himself to ruin that. “For... e-everything.” Nodding earnestly, he couldn't suppress the first tear that spilled over and tickled a trail down past his ear to the pillow.

*

From deep down inside, Sylar exhaled. Peter was watching him anxiously, and he looked like himself again and he was so sad and so sincere that only a monster could stay angry at him any longer. And no matter what everyone said: Sylar wasn't a monster anymore.

He hesitated, unsure if he should try to comfort him some more after the fiasco of the bathroom. But if this wasn't an olive branch on the empath's behalf then Sylar didn't know one, so he leaned up on his elbow in order to see him better. Looking down at that face didn't magically make Sylar feel braver, however. He wouldn't lie and tell himself he wasn't shaken by the state Peter had gotten himself into. Didn't he usually fight to find the best out of every situation? Wasn't he physically incapable of giving up...? Then why did it feel frighteningly like that was what he was doing now?

Heart pounding an off-beat rhythm through his ribcage, Sylar lay a hand on Peter's shoulder and crafted as much reassurance as he could muster from the scattered remnants he had on hand. “You're going to get through this.” He promised softly, because those shining hazel eyes had stolen his voice along with his temper. “If _I_ did, you can. You can do anything, Peter.”

It was supposed to be encouraging, because of course he would get better, because he always conquered whatever he set his mind to: he was invincible, he always had been annoyingly resilient and obviously it would take a hell of a lot more than this to overcome Peter Petrelli! But the man in question only frowned, weakly shook his head, turned back to face the ceiling and closed his eyes tight.

There was a heart-stopping second where Sylar saw his companion's forehead crease and his chin quiver. Then he pressed both hands over his face, as if he could hide what was happening while his tremors shook the bed beneath Sylar.

Finally. It was the first time Peter had let himself cry in his presence since the Hunger had stirred. It was inevitable. It was probably healthy, to an extent. God, Sylar knew he had prayed for someone to soothe and hold him when he had gone through the exact same thing once upon a time. ...It was the least he could do, really.

Because it was allowed in the safety of the dark, Sylar shuffled back down and pulled the smaller man into his arms as if it was the most natural thing in the world, simply to provide him with the body heat and heartbeat that told him he wasn't alone. Peter didn't return the hug but it wasn't a dismissal; he let himself be held in place and the weight and warmth of a person pressed flush against Sylar's body made his heart flutter no matter how mushy it sounded. It felt like forever since the last time. Hell, maybe he needed this just as much as Peter did.

Once he got over the initial adjustment to the entanglement of their bodies, Sylar leaned into it, holding his companion in close. His fingers trailed over Peter's shuddering shoulders and back, bunching repeatedly in the fabric of his shirt while he fought to keep both himself and his friend from falling to pieces. The rest of the world blotted out around the pair the way it had used to be, once.

“Hey, we've played this game before.” Sylar whispered into the silky depths of the little man's hair. His natural scent was familiar, beneath touches of the hotel's sickly shampoo and an unfamiliar smoky tang that Sylar couldn't quite place. “We'll figure something out, okay? It'll be alright.”

Peter only sniffled into Sylar's chest in response, blooming heat through his t-shirt that seeped into his skin and the straining heart beneath the surface. It didn't feel like his words were doing much good, but luckily they weren't the only gifts he had to give.

Sylar had never fully understood the purpose of intimacy unless it preceded sex, even after being bogged down by Nathan's many touchy-feely memories. But with Peter it was different. With Peter it was comforting, and not just for him but for Sylar too, to have such innocent human contact as this. To be held like he was important.

Under any other circumstances this embrace might be considered inappropriate for the constraints of their relationship, but tonight Sylar didn't care. Tonight the former rivals held each other close the way they'd used to in secret, when the nights were colder than usual and hell was particularly lonely for the two lost souls trapped within it.

“It'll be alright, Peter.” He crooned again, softer this time. The two men swayed slightly on the mattress as they hugged, springs creaking under them as time drew the future ever closer outside. "It'll be alright."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, for the millionth time I'm really sorry for the wait! But I hope it was worth it ^.^ I know this chapter is a pretty heavy one, and I'm hoping you made it all the way through and don't hate me too much for hurting our boys like this <3 (but we did finally get them cuddling at the end, so hopefully that makes up for it a bit XP)
> 
> I'd love to know what you think about Peter's fate and Future Sylar, because this has been building sneakily in the background since before you'd even know, let me tell you! I know there are still some blank spaces here but you won't have to wait too long for answers and more drama and emotion X) I know I always say it but I can't wait to share the next chunk of story with you! I hope you enjoyed this and that you'll stay tuned.
> 
> P.S. I'm working on a new drawing for this chapter that I will post to my gallery soon. It should be up within the next few days, please go check it out ^.^


	27. Tongues of Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a particularly long chapter by the time I'd finished it, so I split it up for pacing. Please bear with me, this is a very busy update and don't forget to read the next chapter that's up too ^.^ Thanks for reading – enjoy!

It's dark. Compressing. Something is rumbling all around although there is no sound, a hum that vibrates through the Earth so subtly it's easy to think it isn't real. And then, like breaking the surface of the ocean after drowning, Sylar jolts awake with his arm darting across the bed, making a fist in the loose tangle of sheets.

“Peter?” He mumbles, sitting up in bed and scrubbing at his eyes. The space beside him is cool, empty, void of everything including a person-shaped indent in the mattress.

Sylar's sigh disturbs the dusty air. It's hot in here, murky but for the faint, orange glow that pours through the cracks in boarded-up windows. It's impossible to tell what time it is, but it's not like that matters anyway.

Suppressing a shiver, the man clambers free from his bed and ventures out from a collapsed alcove masquerading as a room. Ignoring the churl in his gut, he winds his way through a vacant, bruised shell of a building, met by nothing and no one, only silence. He resists the lure to peer into shadows that are draped along broken corridors like curtains, because he knows exactly where he's going, where he's supposed to be.

The largest room at the end of the topmost corridor welcomes him.

Sylar is greeted by the line of a man's silhouette, stark and solid against a backdrop of crumbling brick, a jagged hole in the wall, and golden dust particles that float through the air in slow motion. Hovering in the doorway, Sylar steals a second, running a hand over his overgrown beard and bracing himself in privacy. Then his voice comes out more strangled than it should.

“Have you been here all night?”

The only response from the other man is a shift of his shoulders against the broken backrest of his chair.

Relenting with a sigh, Sylar presses forward, fighting through nerves and hesitation that try to pull him back like the tide. Quietly he approaches Peter Petrelli's side, tickling his knuckles against the back of the man's neck where his hair has fallen forward with the bowing of his head.

“I thought we agreed you were going to try to sleep more.” Sylar continues, his voice eerily loud when there is no other competition.

“I did try.” Peter speaks hoarsely. He doesn't acknowledge the caress more than the goosebumps that blossom beneath Sylar's touch. “But I can't... I keep seeing it ov-over again.”

Sylar winces deeply. He understands. He knows there is nowhere in the world to go or hide or deny what they did. Why should the confines of their own dreams be any different?

There was a time, even not that long ago, when Peter had been impervious to this torment. But slowly he is coming back to himself. Sylar watches him day by day, sees him emerging from the daze and inhuman possession that had claimed him for so long, but it only breaks the sensitive man further to awake to the fallout of his actions. To look over the debris with the clarity of mind to regret what he has done.

What he asked Sylar to do. And what Sylar allowed him to.

But tonight... this is the closest to himself Sylar has seen Peter in a _long_ time: when the guilt is impossible, more crushing than the deed itself because Peter is caring again, and remembering, and he knows that he betrayed everything he used to be and everyone he ever loved. And without his people to cherish, what's the point of being here...?

Finding his voice, the former killer moves on to stroke the back of his ally's head now; long, thick, untamed hair that is coarse to the touch instead of silky as it had been, once. “Peter -”

“Don't.” The empath grunts, shrugging off Sylar's hand. “I already know what you're gonna say.”

He kicks his chair away, storming across the chamber to cling instead to a ledge of broken brick, where a wall has fallen in on itself to provide only a brief barrier between the room and the gaping void beyond. Sylar's gut swoops at the insinuation he should have seen coming a mile off but didn't. He tries not to panic too soon. He tries.

The dusty air ripples around Peter Petrelli like the force of unseen power, and despite himself Sylar tenses to be hit by something other than fists. It will take a long time, if ever, to forget how intimidating Peter had been at the height of his madness. But today he is far from that, Sylar knows. Neither of them have used an ability for months, after all. Why would they need to?

“Then why won't you listen?” He asks.

“Because it won't make any difference.”

“It'll make _all_ the difference!” Sylar retorts, defending himself feebly with only a frown and a calloused edge to his voice that had used to be as sharp as a blade. “Peter, this is ridiculous. You're not just punishing yourself anymore – you're punishing everyone, can't you understand?” He wants to fight for his piece but those muscles were worn down long ago, and he can feel himself barely making an impact anymore. “It doesn't have to be this way – we can go _back_. We can _fix_ it.”

The shape of the other man only hardens more around the outsides. He looks so small from here, so thin, wasted away from the passionate, bright creature Sylar used to know. He misses said creature terribly. “No.” Peter states, hollow and void of the empathy and foolish optimism that had won Sylar over in the first place. “We'd only make it worse.”

Sylar balks. “It can't _get_ any worse!”

“ _EXACTLY!_ ” Peter's voice would shake the building with its force, if the thing wasn't shaking already. “Look at what I did! _I_ did this!”

He's trembling, and his hands grip the remnants of wall on the far side, clenching as if searching for a strong enough hold to throw himself over the edge. Sylar knows the fall wouldn't kill him. It would only provide a temporary relief from this suffering of theirs. But still his heartbeat races in his throat and he creeps a few steps closer to where his only companion is falling to pieces and he can't do a thing to stop it. No matter how hard he tries, no matter how far he falls.

“No you didn't. That's not true.”

He insists quietly, for the millionth time. Because of course the one trait Peter has clung to beyond the end of his sanity is crushing self-blame, that goddamned inferiority complex. He could mould the world in his hands and yet still wouldn't think he'd done enough; he could end it all and still fight for the emptiness left behind in the world around him.

“You weren't responsible for this, Peter. Nobody was. You know this.”

Peter releases a hollowing breath that shudders on the way out. Even from the back the expression he's hiding rips Sylar to the core. “But I let it happen.” He husks, thick with aching remorse.

Sylar wishes he didn't shiver, but it's impossible not to when standing before that superhuman, knowing exactly what he is capable of. Not just in his abilities – but in the unbreakable control he holds over Sylar without even trying. If Peter does jump from this building, Sylar knows he will be one step behind before he's even had time to make up his mind.

“I could have stopped it but I didn't, I wanted it to happen.” Peter sniffles and swipes at his eyes with his sleeve, so quickly the motion might have been misinterpreted by anyone other than Sylar. “I _wanted_ everyone to be gone. I thought that if... if there was nobody else around then... I could get better.” His rusty voice falls apart in the air and rains to the ground like cinders.

“I know.” Sylar swallows roughly. What little part of his heart that is still working breaks for the millionth time. “I know you did. I understand.”

A hot gust of wind trails ashes through the collapsed wall, rolling sickeningly over the two men. “This is all my fault.” Peter grunts, his grip tightening on scorched stone. “They were right about me all along...”

“No. No. You were only looking for a way out, Peter, you didn't know what you were doing.” Sylar corrects softly, desperately, inching even closer to the other man as he tries to talk him down from the edge.

Finally the smaller man succumbs to the tremors that wrack his hunched shoulders. “Why did you let me do it?!” He snarls, a wretched, ruined sound that carries out over the expanse of the city. His accusation echos horribly through the bones of the building and back into Sylar. “How can you even stand to be near me?!” He wobbles dangerously close to the drop before him, causing Sylar to hurry the remaining distance until he stops just short of physical contact.

Licking dry lips, he speaks barely above a whisper even though it would make no difference if he had screamed at the top of his lungs. “Because we're in this thing together. Because it's always been you and me against the world, Peter, don't you remember?”

It's not that he doesn't want to touch – he does. He wants to feel the warmth of someone else's skin, to do something so human, to reach out and trace the scar that mars Peter's fine features, to pull the front lock of his hair forward over his face the way he'd used to wear it. Maybe far beneath his haggard appearance and the wounds that murder left behind, he is still the kind-hearted empath who had only gotten himself into this mess in the first place because he wanted to be able to help innocent people? It's for the broken man's benefit that Sylar resists, not his own.

At last Peter gives in, turning around to blaze that wounded glare at the former watchmaker for the first time. The whites of his eyes are vivid amongst shadows, his skin dirty, his lips pale. Gritting his teeth, he drags a hand through his tangled hair to push it back off his face, clear for the world to see if only it was watching.

Sometimes Sylar forgets that he didn't always used to look this way. That he used to be soft, healthy, inspiring once, that he used to be beautiful. Before time scarred his face and hollowed his cheeks and drained the life from his eyes.

“I'm so sorry.” The younger man's face twists beneath the angry scar that tears the length of it, sorrow behind the restraints of anger and denial. “I did this to you.” He whispers.

The watchmaker shudders but doesn't flinch. It would be so easy to blame Peter for everything, but he just can't. Sylar's dreams of becoming a hero went up in smoke long ago, but still it hurts. Because he is as much to blame for this predicament as Peter, if not more.

He had watched. He had waited. He had let it happen too. He had held Peter's hand and gone along with the plan just because Peter had wanted it, and Sylar had hoped it might return his friend to him even at the expense of everyone else. Because he would rather have had only Peter and nothing else than the other way around, because what else did he have in the world to live for...?

The empath had only done what he had because he'd lost his mind. But Sylar hadn't. Or at least, he'd thought he hadn't. Although now, for the life of him, he hasn't been able to claw his way back to the level of desperate insanity that had allowed him to say yes when Peter had come to him that night with the proposition, more bloody and broken and deranged than he had ever been before.

Sylar twitches his hand as if to reach for the guy, but he never manages to complete the gesture. “It's not too late.” He promises, both himself and his charge. “We can still go back.” He repeats.

But Peter shakes his head, looking sightlessly straight through Sylar with tear tracks scored through the dirt ingrained into his face. “No. I can't go through that again. I won't.”

Sylar doesn't even care that he's begging, pleading with everything he has left in him. There's nobody else around to know anyway. “But it can be different, if you just let me -”

“NO!”

“Peter! _Let_ me help you!”

Defiant and unflinching, Peter stands in the ringing aftermath of Sylar's declaration. On the outside he looks dangerous enough that Sylar is reminded of him at his worst, but on the inside he's just a scared, traumatized little kid lost inside the broken shell of a man, afraid to get involved again after what he did last time.

Breathing deeply, Peter looks up at Sylar through a disobediant strand of his hair, and for a moment Sylar actually dares to draw on something that might be hope – it's been too long to recognise it for sure. But then Peter's demeanor fractures through the middle, and the glimpse Sylar gets of his ghastly, bleeding remorse is worse than fury could be.

With one smooth, deliberate motion, the smaller man tears himself from the ledge and the deadly drop beyond. He draws in close enough to make a fist over the spot where the watchmaker's heart used to be, with apparent effort. He drops his eyes and his lips tremble behind the scruff of his beard, and he speaks so softly that it could easily be misinterpreted as a concession. But Sylar knows him too well to fall for that.

“Don't you think you've done enough already?”

When the hand slips away it steals all remaining strength in Sylar's body. He doesn't try to protest when Peter pulls back, pushes his way past and out the room, kicking up dust with each footstep. He only watches him leave.

The other man's form melts into the shadowy corridor beyond the door that hangs loose on one hinge, and Sylar doesn't even suppress the anguish that flushes through him because any emotion is better than none at all.

Crestfallen, he storms to the blasted in wall and confronts the view for the first time, letting colour and ash bleed into his sight in shafts of blazing light. He grips onto charred brick where Peter's handprints lie, refusing to turn away from the wasteland of New York City that's stretched bare before his stinging eyes, no matter how much it hurts.

This sight is one that haunts Sylar every second of the day, even in his dreams, but it never ceases to be as terrifying, as transfixing, as it was the moment two immortal men had let it transpire. Skeletal remains of buildings stretch high into burning clouds; the ground is still smoking, still smouldering even all this time later; the embers have been glowing ever since the sun sent down tongues of fire to scorch the earth dry, and yet they continue to flicker.

Sylar watched the world burn because Peter asked him to. Because he was too much of a coward to say no, or to risk the only thing in his life that gave him any meaning at all. He left billions of people to be wiped out, surrendered them because he was so selfish and disgusting and pathetic. Sylar had done nothing but watch ashes fall upon a broken world made from broken promises that burned into dust just like everything else in existence.

And now Peter has finally given up. Given in. Lost. And Sylar is supposed to agree with that too, like he's been doing with everything every day since. But he can't, this time. He just can't give up when he knows he holds the ability to try and make things right.

As he gazes out upon the broken skyline, disjointed and transfigured like a row of black and missing teeth, Sylar realises he can't wait any longer for Peter to come round. The plan he has been burying within the walls of his heart is growing too big to contain now. Catching his breath, he bids a silent, painful farewell to his friend who has long lost his way. And then he bids farewell to the world he let fall, because if things work out the way he hopes then this will be the last time he'll ever lay eyes upon it.

The thought of turning his back on Peter now, after everything they've shared with one another, hurts almost as much as the thought of staying here forever.

But it wouldn't really be goodbye, he tells himself. For the first time in a long time he has to stop being so selfish and let go the thing he loves most in order to save it, and everyone else. And if the only way to fix his regrets is to betray the man he ruined to do it alone? So be it.

***

Peter bolted upright with a cry, his head reeling at the sudden lack of Sylar and fire and smoke and ashes swirling in the darkness around him.

Woah! What-? What the fuck...? Panting heavily, he blinked away the vivid etchings of the dream that were still invading his senses, fighting to free himself from the compressing weight of a duvet. He was sweating, still wearing his clothes from yesterday which were now damp and crushed, but he didn't give a shit about that. Swiping his sticky hair off his face, he stared wildly at his surroundings while they chased away the lingering imprint of what could only have been a prophecy.

Peter wasn't in that hollowed out building anymore. No, he was in a run-down hotel room; the city was alive outside where clouds that weren't burning hung heavy and dark; the touch of dawn leaked through the window onto the evidence of yesterday's 'feast'; and finally Peter remembered where he was, and that he had fallen asleep in Sylar's bed last night. He was safe, he realised. He was still sane.

“S'matter?” Peter's hammering heart jolted when Sylar dragged himself up onto an elbow beside him, rubbing at his eyes like a child who had been rudely awoken from a nap. “You have a nightmare?” He mumbled.

Peter gaped at the very same guy who had just been framed in that window of blazing fire, feeling his hands shake and throat constrict for him. Warmth from the other man's body was currently printed across Peter's back from they way they'd been sleeping, and his skin itched with guilt and sorrow and shame for what he'd just seen himself do to his friend. Meanwhile, Sylar could lie there beside him so calmly because he didn't know. After all, how could he...?

Fuck, he was so different from the broken survivor from the future. Instead of pleading and desperate, Sylar looked comfortable now, unconcerned by his mussed up hair or the telltale softness that meant he was still half asleep. Hopeful. Oblivious. Wrong.

“Oh god...” The empath breathed to no one, wiping both hands over his face when the dream crashed back to him again in a particularly vivid aftershock.

He could feel the warmth of bedcovers and the weight of Sylar nearby keeping him grounded in reality. But as soon as he closed his eyes he was back there beneath a dust-filled, fiery spotlight that was so hot it burned through his vision. It had been soreal... _so_ real...

*

Clinging to sleep, Sylar tried to drag his friend back down to the comfort of the pillow, but Peter only scrambled out of bed so clumsily that he almost fell over.

“Oh god!” He repeated, more incensed this time.

It was with reluctance that Sylar forced himself to wake up enough to understand what was happening. All he could take in at first was a flurry of movement and agitation blazing around the darkened room, until he managed to tune in to see Peter fumbling about for his second shoe.

Sylar cleared his throat, concerned now. Suddenly he remembered all too well the events of the previous day, and the accompanying sinking feeling that followed. “Where do you think you're going?” He asked, squinting at his subject in hopes this wasn't really happening. Surely the guy had experienced enough moodswings in twenty four hours?

“We – we have to warn people!” Peter insisted, failing to wedge his foot into his boot without loosening the laces first.

Slowly, Sylar sat up, frowning. How the hell could Peter wake even more wound up than how he'd cried himself to sleep? His meltdown was horrible to witness, but Sylar couldn't pretend he wasn't losing patience for this phase of sliding all over the emotional spectrum that Peter had taken to recently (more than usual, that was). Especially when Sylar would be generous in assuming he'd snatched three hours of sleep tonight at all, thanks to the youngest Petrelli.

“Warn them about what?” He asked carefully, trying to remain calm if only to avoid encouraging this madness.

Shaking his head vehemently, Peter only ripped his way into his boot and threw away the laces. “The future! I dreamed – I saw – I know – I have to...” Struggling for breath, he snapped up straight with questionable balance.

Then his mouth fell open as an invisible lightbulb cracked into being over his head.

“I have to find Noah.”

“ _What?!_ ” This time Sylar actually yelped, making Peter's rushed method of untangling himself from the bed covers look graceful. He had barely caught his footing when the guy was upon him, grabbing his wrist and dragging him over to the window in all his barefoot, pyjama-clad glory. “Peter, you're not making any sense! Slow down! Talk to me!”

*

“I have to find Noah!” Peter repeated frantically, the runnings of his mouth just an afterthought to the tornado swirling around inside his head.

The memory of his own face disfigured and transformed by time haunted him – not to mention Sylar! And the things he'd been saying in the dream... then the sight of a burned graveyard that had used to be a proud, thriving city... There was so much to consider, so much to remember, to prevent...

“Is this about yesterday?” Sylar snapped at him. “I know you're upset about the Hunger, but if this is you trying to prove you're still the same guy as always who runs stupidly into unrealistic situations without thinking – it's working!”

“What? No!” The insult bounced off Peter as harmlessly as a paper crane. It meant nothing and made no impact in the face of his transformation: where the cobwebs of the past week were falling away and he could draw in a breath that was as liberating as reviving from death yet again, because Peter _wasn't_ dead. Not yet. He wasn't totally ruined. And now that he had caught a glimpse of how much further he had to fall before hitting rock bottom, he could only appreciate how good he had it right now.

And that renewed burst of energy – that _life_? It was not going to be put to waste.

Sylar wriggled in his grasp in complaint, but not enough to pull free as they stumbled across the room together. “Listen, I know it's difficult, I went through the same thing, remember? But you don't have to do this just to prove something to yourself –”

“No, you don't get it!”

Defense flickered over the former murderer's skin then. “Why? Cause I'm nothing but a killer who can't possibly understand feeling alone and isolated and how it feels to want to be better...?”

“Of course not!” Peter tripped to a stop by the window, staring up at Sylar and just wishing he could find a way to lay it all out clearly for him to see the same view that burned behind his own eyelids. The taller man just watched him, frowning deeper in return. “Look: it's not like that –”

“Then _tell_ me what's going on.”

Peter sucked in a deep breath as he wrenched the window open. “If we get to Noah, he'll have resources – a plan – anything that might help! I have to warn him so he can...”

But then his voice caught in his throat. His joints froze, locking him in place. Crisp wind and the smell of rain blew in past him but Peter barely noticed the cold. Sylar hovered indignantly at his side, but the question searing in his gaze was nothing compared to the inferno Peter had just woken from. Nor the dawning realisition of the final piece of the puzzle, the puzzle that had been struggling to form in the corner of his mind for months, now.

“Unless... unless he already knows!” With a gasp, he span on the spot back to Sylar, his hands gesturing helplessly at nothing and everything. “He knows, Sylar! And my mother... her dreams! She saw it too! They think we did it but we didn't! _That's_ why they've been trying to catch us! They think they can prevent it if they bring us in!”

It all fit! The blank edges of the picture were filling themselves in on their own while Peter could only watch, receive and struggle to comprehend it all. It was all connected! It had been about this all along! If only they'd known this sooner...

*

By now, Sylar would openly admit that he was frightened. Not only of the way Peter was acting, but of the things he was rambling about too fast to interpret. Still none of it made sense to Sylar, but he could catch enough to know none of it sounded good, either.

The little man was breathless, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, impassioned, possessed; but not by a power – by purpose. Clarity. Suddenly it was as if he'd been dosed in a perspective that made him abandon the fears that had plagued him since he'd exploded in the sky, but this was not an improvement. Whatever had got to him had got to him good, and Sylar wasn't sure he wanted to know what would shake Peter Petrelli enough that he would just drop everything they'd lived and died for since the carnival to go running to the man who had hunted them all this time.

He was trying hard to be understanding, but it was difficult when there was nothing coherent _to_ understand. “Peter! What are you talking about?!”

Instead of the impatient expression the watchmaker had been expecting, the empath's features were softer now, his forehead creased in earnest. If it wasn't for such a worrying reason Sylar would have rejoiced at seeing this impassioned side of his friend shine through again – it felt like it had been far too long.

Peter drew in a deep breath, fighting hard to word it simply while struggling to stand in one spot. “I saw the future. Alright? I was _there_ – and everything was gone, _everyone_ was dead! I don't know how it happens but it _happens_! But he said we can still stop it, he said I can change the future and I _can't_ waste this chance!”

What the hell...? When Peter made to climb out the window Sylar ducked in front of him, countering his movements with his own so as not to give him the chance to escape.

“Hey! Stop!” Sylar jammed his arms against either side of the open window, withstanding the breeze that ran through his t-shirt and speckled the back of it with raindrops. It was nothing compared to the chills running through his veins. “Fill me in here: _who_ said that? Who told you all this?”

Hesitantly, Peter fell to a stop in his attempts to work his way around Sylar. And it was the sudden shame that unfurled from his tense little form that had the watchmaker reconsidering his stance on this whole thing for the first time.

Oh... Suddenly it made sense. Of course it did. Peter wasn't just confused, or struggling to explain his latest prophetic dream.

He was hiding something.

When it sank in Sylar actually scoffed at his own stupidity. So Peter had been keeping a real secret from him? It should have been pathetically obvious considering his recent behaviour, yet still this revelation ached like a blade had just pierced through Sylar's sternum.

How long had the secret been fermenting? He didn't want to think back on last night, on the intimate words and the proximity he'd shared with Peter with the realisation it had been spoiled with lies.

He had forgotten how it felt to feel so exposed. To be so surprised by someone he trusted. But Sylar blamed himself for such a glaring oversight. He had been fooled by tears and cuddles and that goddamned face into a false sense of trust, because Peter knew just how to play him. And play him he had, alright.

*

Shit.Peter hadn't meant to pry open the topic of their future selves, not when there was a new problem that demanded his full attention and just happened to keep him on an even plane with his companion, were they to tackle this one first. Couldn't they just focus on preventing the end of the world without dragging all the other stuff into the limelight?

He still didn't want to tell Sylar about what had transpired last night on the rooftop. He didn't want to ruin what they had by unvieling how ugly he was going to become and how far Sylar was going to go along with it. He wanted to keep things this way for just a little while longer. Please, could he just keep it?

But his escape was still blocked by the larger stance of his friend, and Peter was trapped beneath the gaze of a man who could read the inner workings of his soul if he chose.

He knew before he even tried that he was not lying his way out of this one. He didn't think he had the strength to anyway, when the thought of one more indiscretion could be the point on which everything balanced. Peter's dream was still echoing at the edges of his awareness, so close that he could turn his head to the side and be staring through that portal of time all over again. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up at the thought, and for the first time since waking Peter actively forced himself to slow down enough to let the swell of the current catch up to him.

“Sylar... please, just...”

He sighed, wetting his lips while looking pointlessly over Sylar's shoulder as if the easy way to do this would appear to him in mid air. It was impossible to phrase it correctly when there was far too much to say.

“We don't have to do this now.”

When he finally gathered the courage to look up at the other man's face, he knew he had blown any chance of avoiding this confrontation. Sylar's whole demeanor had changed from confused to downright incredulous, a realisation of Peter's dishonesty that was so sharp it stabbed outwards as well as in. And Peter knew he didn't have it in him to hurt this person any more than he already had.

*

Sylar had always despised feeling vulnerable, feeling played, lied to, more than any other sensation on Earth. And it never got easier to handle, no matter how many times he endured it.

He burned just being near the guilt-ridden empath. “Yes we _do_ have to do this now. Tell me what's going on.” The force he had intended to put into the demand never made it past his constricted throat.

The city began to stir at his back, the wind tugged at the evos' hair and the rain sprinkled in upon them, where both men clung stubbornly to their own incentive. It was a painful display of wrongdoing, of guilt and shame, to witness Peter squirm on the spot; gnawing his lip and closing his eyes and tucking his hair behind his ear again and again as if it was going to spare him from his predicament. It wouldn't. Because for every breath of a second that passed in this manner, Sylar only realised more how much he didn't want to hear what was coming. And just how imperative it was that he did.

If he were a lesser man, he would have succumbed to the blush of fury that made him want to tear his eyes from Peter. But he rode out the discomfort this time.

He could make this manipulating little fucker tell him the truth. He had used to be a master at... interrogating, after all. But he didn't want to do it like that. He didn't want to force his way into that place, he wanted to _earn_ it and _deserve_ to be let in, and until now he'd thought he already had.

“ _Peter_.” Somehow the command got tangled up in his feelings, falling past his lips as barely anything more than a plea.

*

It wasn't fair to do this to him. It wasn't fair to ruin him with the truth of the future, either, but Peter knew deep down that he'd only been keeping it secret this long for his own reasons. He should have told Sylar about last night as soon as it had happened. But now it was so much worse, and how could he gently break the news to someone that they were involved in allowing billions of lives to end...?

Peter didn't want to condemn his friend, after everything he'd done to distance himself from the murderer he'd used to be, or corrupt him the way he had in the dream. But even without six years between them plus the end of the world to consider, the weight of Sylar's troubles pressed into his expression in pieces, until he looked down upon Peter in a way that was pretty damned close to that of his future counterpart's.

Peter had just done that. He had put that look there. He was doing it already? Jesus.

In his mind's eye he was transported back to that crumbling room at the corner of the crumbling building, to where his friend had made the decision to erase six years of his existence for the sake of everyone else. He relived the gut-wrenching ache of fighting against the veil of sleep to try and reach Sylar, to comfort him and just do anything to let him know he was appreciated. He had woken himself up with the effort it took to try and help that snapshot of the man from the future, and still hadn't managed.

But here, now... the solution to Sylar's pain was as easy a task as Peter parting his lips and letting the truth float free.

*

At long last, Peter bit his tongue and raised his linked fingers to his lips, visibly struggling to capture the magnitude of his thoughts into words.

He stood so close to Sylar that the men could almost feel each other breathing, but Sylar didn't pull back and he didn't give in, either. Not to the wind that was tugging his thin t-shirt and stirring goosebumps across his skin, and not to the sufferingly apologetic guy in front of him who exuded a desperate need of rescue.

“Alright.” Peter breathed, a consession that seemed to cleanse the shadows from his face along with it. “I'll tell you everything.”

***

Claire let her phone ring out again. Anyone else would get the hint she didn't want to talk after weeks of the silent treatment, but Noah Bennet had always been one stubborn son of a gun.

Sometimes she wondered if she had inherited that same trait from the Petrelli side of her blood or from Noah. It didn't really matter, because wherever it came from gave Claire the strength to ignore her father's desperate attempts for the tenth time (and that was just this week) to rebuild the bridge made of burnt kindling that balanced ragged and smoking between them.

The call went to voicemail while Claire focused on touching up her hair and make-up in the mirror. She had excused her stylists after the last interview had finished recording, because there was only so long she could put up with being fussed over from all sides like a Barbie doll in one day, and the world would hardly end if her make-up wasn't professionally done for signing autographs on her way to the car. Plus, these brief moments to wind down after an appearance were about the only times she had to herself when her schedule was so packed, and none were as sacred as the final one of the day. It was long after midnight by now, thank god it was over. For another few hours, anyway.

Claire's publicist Danielle paced around the dressing room behind her, finishing up the end of her millionth call today. Jeez, that woman might not be an evo but she was still a freaking superhero to do as much as she did and make it look easy.

Danielle hung up with a brief sigh and crossed the room to pat a hand on Claire's shoulder. “Another day, another hundred disasters averted, am I right?” She smiled her pleasing smile, showing her age only through the brief crinkling of her eyes. Claire returned the gesture but it might not have held as much effort as it should. “You did good today, babe. Now go rest, unwind, sleep. Gotta keep you pretty. The car's set to pick you up at seven thirty tomorrow morning, don't be late, you've gotta be at the studio by nine so try not to let breakfast with your mother and Lyle run over till then. Oh, and wear the Chanel with the hood on your way out, 'kay? It's still raining out there.”

“Got it.” Claire nodded, managing to keep her smile pinned in place until Danielle bade her farewell and flurried out of the room with her ear stuck to her phone yet again. Only when the door closed on her did Claire drop her head onto her arms and let out her breath for what felt like the first time all day.

Her facial muscles were stiff from maintaining a fake smile since the morning, and her head was aching from repressing her worries to pretend on the outside that everything was okay in the world. How many times in the past week had she dodged the question of the explosion over New York City on TV? There were only so many variations of 'it was an unforeseeable accident' she could create, after all. While really, Claire had known in her heart before seeing any video footage who it was and what had happened. Not the intricate details, of course, but what else was there to know besides Sylar had stolen and corrupted her uncle and now they were wrecking havoc out there together, deliberately or not? Because no matter what had happened and no matter who it had happened with, Claire would never believe Peter had gone nuclear on purpose unless he told her that himself.

But still, he had hurt people. He had almost killed millions more. And Claire was stuck in here, locked in this cycle of hotel – car – dressing room – stage – hotel – car – dressing room – stage and that was supposed to be her grand input to the world? Some life.

When the door clicked open behind her once more, she jumped to her feet as if she hadn't just been sulking here since Danielle had left. “I know, I know, the one with the hood!” She said loudly, but when she turned around lofting what she hoped was the correct coat, she didn't recognise the young man standing in the doorway. He certainly wasn't Danielle.

Great. Claire's first thought was that a fan had somehow managed to sneak in past her security detail. But then the boy smiled, and it was then that recognition clicked into place. Holy shit.

“Am I interrupting anything, Miracle-Grow?”

Claire could hardly believe her perfect eyesight. “... _Zach?!_ ” She only gaped at her visitor while he laughed shyly at her.

“Hey, Claire.”

What in the world...? She could barely even recognise her old friend – he looked so grown up! So handsome in a way Claire had never thought to notice before; he had grown into his limbs and was no longer the skinny nerd she'd used to know with headphones permanently glued around his neck. He looked _good_. Like he'd had a happy few years since Claire had ran out on their friendship without even so much as a heads up...

“Wh-what're you doing here? How did you get in?” She stammered.

Zach shrugged modestly, running a hand through hair that was longer than it had been when she'd known him: choppy and tousled as if he had just rolled out of bed but somehow managed to make it look stylish or artsy or something. He probably _was_ an artist. Living in a tiny apartment somewhere in the city with exposed floorboards and a hipster roommate. It was just so fitting that Claire couldn't believe she hadn't recognised him at first.

“I'm doing an internship here through college. Camera Operator. I just worked your show, actually. I'm not sure I'm supposed to be back here, but...” He shrugged again, still a shy, humble guy beneath the years, Claire noticed. Although, there was definitely more confidence in him than the last time she'd seen him.

So a camera guy? It was gratifying to know he hadn't given up on the skill that had first brought them together. Claire could still remember the first time she'd approached him in the computer lab to ask for his help after school... Had it really been so long ago? Shit.

The next thing she new, she had crossed the room and was hugging Zach tight, as if holding onto him could bring her closer to the life she'd used to lead. He chuckled again, hugging her back so lightly it was as if he was afraid to press too hard and break her, of all people.

“I can't believe you're here.” Claire confessed, pulling back with the first genuine smile she'd worn in weeks. She'd almost forgotten how it felt not to have to force one into life.

“I can't believe you, either. You look... grown up.” Zach said, looking her over from up close.

Claire struck a pose for him, slightly aware of her home-made make-up job compared to that of her staff. She hardly looked her best at this time of night after a _long_ day's work. That didn't matter with Zach, though. “Thanks, you don't look too bad, yourself.”

“I never said 'good'.” Zach pointed out quietly. Stunted for a moment by his bluntness, Claire didn't know how to respond to that. Did he just...?

“I'll have you know my _personal friend_ Marc Jacobs made this pantsuit just for me. It's one of a kind.”

Zach smiled down at her, and he could easily have been a nerdy schoolkid again excited to show her one of his comic books that he knew she hated. “Yeah, well, I liked your cargo shorts and sweaters better.”

Claire laughed despite the insulting tones to his assessment. Suddenly she missed the years of her cheerleading uniform, flip-flops and messy ponytails terribly, when it didn't matter if she walked to the end of her driveway with no make-up on and her hair ungroomed. She missed Zach even more. Since they'd last met he'd graduated high school, gone to college, moved to New York City just like a normal teenager... Meanwhile Claire had repeatedly ran for her life and changed her identity to avoid being experimented on by the government. She couldn't help but wonder what would have happened had she stayed in Odessa and grown up alongside him. Maybe she could've become a cool sort of artist too?

“How've you been?” She asked, trying to mask the sense of sadness in her voice. “You live here now?”

“Yeah. It was weird moving from Odessa to this, took a while to get settled but it's awesome. My parents took it really well, too, you would've been surprised. I'm actually driving home to see them tomorrow, so –”

“And? Have you got anyone special in your life?” Claire teased in a sing-song voice, aware of his lacklustre approach to dating back in high school. She truly hoped his confidence had grown in the time since, and by the awkward shuffling of his feet and the way he suddenly dropped their eye contact Claire guessed that he had.

“...Yeah. He's nice.” Zach looked pleased with himself, but he didn't say more on the subject and that was just like him, so Claire didn't push for more information although she yearned to terribly. “What about you?”

“ _Me_?” Claire practically squeaked just at the ludicrous idea. “No. _No._ Definitely not, I, uh...” Then she caught herself rambling, suddenly feeling embarrassed. “I mean, I hardly even have time for friendships with all _this_ going on, never mind dating.”

It was when Zach closed down ever-so-slightly that Claire was hit by the full force of guilt for the first time since he'd arrived. It sounded awful, but she had been so distracted since fleeing Odessa that she had rarely ever thought back to what it must have done to him to have his only friend disappear into thin air.

“Listen, Zach... I'm sorry I never -”

“It's cool. I get it. You've been busy.” He dismissed her apology. Claire appreciated that, especially when she could see the memory of hurt in his features as he spoke.

She couldn't help but grimace. “ _Busy_ is an understatement.” It was far too much to fill him in on in one conversation. Which was a shame, now that she thought about it. Nobody else she knew would appreciate the details of her adventures into the crazy world of the sci-fi realm more than Zach. Except perhaps Hiro Nakamura.

“Yeah, it sucked when you never responded to my emails – I didn't know what had happened to you, with everything going on with your dad and whatnot. I did some digging at first but it was tough not to freak out.” The sadness on Zach's face morphed into something much more pleasant. “But then I heard that a girl in New York had jumped from a Ferris Wheel and survived...” Once more he shrugged, because the turning point of the world was no big deal to the guy who had seen Claire regenerate more times than almost anyone, apparently. “I knew it was you. But America's Sweetheart? That took more convincing.”

“Hey!” Claire swatted at his arm. But he didn't join in on the joke.

Too late, the happiness that had infected the teenage girl along with Zach's arrival began to ebb away. Slowly she placed the weight to his tone and expression that had been there all along but had seemed irrelevant until now. He hadn't come here to reminisce about old times, and he wasn't here to congratulate her on her worldwide success, either. And after being surrounded by nothing but praise and compliments and yes men for so long, encountering the opposite hurt like a bitch.

But not just because it was unfavorable. Because it tread far too close to the sore spot inside Claire that only grew more tender by the day.

Frowning, she stood her ground before the taller form of the boy. “I thought you of all people would be happy for me supporting evo wellfare.”

“That is _so_ not what I'm saying.” Zach crossed his arms over his chest, hunching his shoulders. “I think it's great that you're out there giving a voice to people like you who would otherwise feel alone: I remember what you went through in high school. And it's cool that you finally embraced your inner freak.” A flicker of fondness broke through his expression for old times' sake. It was just enough to make Claire second guess calling for security to get him out of here before he said something truly hurtful. “But c'mon, Claire. You're still not reaching your full potential. You're not being honest with yourself.”

“And _you're_ the expert on that?” Claire snapped at him. Suddenly she was done catching up, so turned her back on him to storm across the dressing room and scoop her belongings into her bags, not even caring what she was grabbing.

She didn't need to listen to this. Not when Zach had no idea – _no_ idea – what she was going through behind the scenes. Who the hell was this guy to show up after all these years just to lecture her?! As if she didn't already feel useless enough without his help.

“You can't honestly tell me you're happy doing this?”

Behind her, Zach refused to let up. Claire even considered bursting her own eardrums just to avoid the harsh truths he was battering down upon her like fists. There was no point. They'd heal within seconds, anyway.

“You're doing commercials and you promote designer clothes and you pretend everything is fine between evos and non-specials, but there are real bad things happening out there!” He insisted, somehow able to shout without once raising his voice. “You can't just ignore that and hope it goes away! The explosion last week – that was the guy who saved you at homecoming, right? Peter Petrelli?”

“Wh...?” Claire blinked at him. Peter's name hadn't been officially released following the incident at Mercy Heights (a detail that definitely had Angela Petrelli's fingerprint on it). Zach had said he'd done some digging, but was it really so easy for a teenage tech nerd to piece those dots together...? Angela would _not_ like that. “How d'you-?”

“Clearly you're involved in all this but you're just turning your back while people need you to defend them? That isn't _you,_ Claire!” Indignant, Claire just stared across the room wielding bags full of products and outfits that might not even belong to her, for all she knew. Somehow Zach's words speared right to the core of the Indestructible Girl, leaving a scar that no weapon ever could. “You should be using your fame to spread the messages you believe in. Wasn't that why you jumped in the first place? What happened to that girl?”

All at once Claire's cheeks burned and she wished Zach wasn't looking at her. She wished she couldn't feel the memory of Nathan's funeral so close, or the heat and steam of a crumbling oil rig breaking down everything – every _one –_ close to her.

“...She tried to heal the world.” Claire shrugged in defeat, sighing through her teeth. “Then she lost everything. Now she's just trying to pick up the pieces without anyone else getting hurt.”

“But people _are_ getting hurt.” Zach pressed quietly, watching her with that look that had always been wise beyond his years. “You're the  _Indestructible Girl_. You could do so much more to help them than repeat the same trash day in and day out on TV.”

With a scoff, Claire shrugged her bags off her shoulders, letting them _thump_ heavily to the floor. “You're saying I should be out there fighting bad guys in alleys?” She narrowed her eyes at him, crossing her arms firmly.

Despite the topic of conversation, Zach chuckled to himself and Claire wanted to throw something at him. She would have, too, if she didn't secretly value his honesty when nobody else in her life told her how it was nowadays. The truth was a rare commodity, recently.

“I'm saying you should fight for what's right, not what's easy. What's the point of being superhuman if you can't even be a super _hero_?”

The rest of the studio building bustled on beyond the dressing room door and Claire's phone rang unanswered again in her hand, but she wasn't aware of any of it. ...Damn him. He sounded so sure of himself, in a way Claire hadn't been for weeks. He sounded hopeful, confident. He sounded like Peter.

He was right, of course. He knew it and Claire knew it, had long before that feeling had turned inwards and become painful weeks ago. Still, like her fathers, Claire Bennet was a stubborn son of a gun too, so she wouldn't admit this aloud. But she could, however, give in when the time called for it.

It didn't feel like Claire had come off worse in the conversation, like she'd just had her ass handed to her by this soft-spoken teenage boy, but she had. And, surprisingly, she didn't even mind.

“You came all the way back here to make me feel like an idiot?” She asked, face breaking into another of those genuine smiles although it seemed a strange time for one to consume her.

Gracious as always, Zach shook his head and ruffled his hair again. “Not only.” He sneaked a tiny, sad grin her way and peeked at her from behind the longest eyelashes Claire had ever seen in her life. “We never got to say goodbye.”

Normally it might not have struck such a cord inside the ex-cheerleader, but now? When her father had betrayed her for the millionth time, her mother was spending all her time with _perfect Doug_ , Gretchen had vanished into thin air, Peter had been lost to the clutches of Claire's enemy and even Lyle took forever to reply to her texts? Zach's sentiment meant the world when the rest of it felt empty.

Even though he had just talked down to her, called her out and insulted her appearance, Claire didn't even hesitate before crossing to the boy again and wrapping him up in a hug once more. This time he returned it properly, and Claire nestled her head against his shoulder the way she'd always wished she had before leaving him behind long ago.

“I've missed you.” She confessed, her voice muffled in Zach's t-shirt.

God, this might actually have been the first genuine interaction she'd shared with someone in as long as she could remember. Maybe honesty just sounded so strange because it had been so long since she'd encountered it? And maybe his speech had made such an impact because what Claire had needed all along was someone else to justify the things she'd been afraid to be feeling?

“Ditto.” Zach replied quietly. It was rare for him to be so sweet with her without ruining it by some lame joke, although Claire didn't mind at all. But, clearly, he just couldn't help himself. “You realise you ruined me for life, right?” He tutted. “I mean, you were the coolest, grossest person I've ever known. How can I top a best friend who can regrow her own bones?”

Claire wrinkled her nose, thinking back to a certain geneticist and his tendency to cocoon people to walls with his ability-goo. “Believe me, there's worse out there.”

Zach burst into disgusted chuckles then, and despite herself, and her status, and every hard truth Zach had just hammered home, Claire couldn't resist joining in for this stolen moment of relief.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there's a lot to process in this chapter, but there's still more to come in the next one – so please don't forget to go check it out too X) But first, I have a few notes I want to share with you guys about the events of this chapter:
> 
> Firstly: Zach. I'm really pleased to be able to feature him in the story, I thought he was adorable in the show and I always liked to think he was happy and content after Claire f*cked off like she did and just left him in the dust. And so now here we are! I hope you guys enjoyed his appearance X)
> 
> And then: Peter's dream/the future. It's a relief to finally be able to share this here in detail since it's been building all the way from the end of chapter 5!!! Since Angela first had her dream – this is what she has been seeing. But as for if she interpreted it right...? X) (I'll also mention here that I don't know why future Peter got his scar this time, but it's such an iconic visual clue that I couldn't not have it in there. We just don't have to know how he got it, like in the show)
> 
> Also: (SPOILERS FOR HEROES REBORN) For anyone who hasn't already pieced it together, the future vision that Peter had is of a world after the HELIOS wasn't stopped. That's solar flares that destroyed the planet, and is a big part of Heroes Reborn (which is also where the “6 years from now” comes from, plus in Reborn Angela says she had a dream about the HELIOS, which is the same dream as in this story)
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me all the way here! But trust me, there's lots more drama to come... X)


	28. From the Ashes

No missed calls. No new messages.

Of course there were no new messages – aside from time having crept until the early hours of the morning, and therefore everyone should be asleep, Claire still wasn't speaking to him anyway. And Noah didn't know his daughter if he didn't know a random change of heart was not her usual style. If only she'd give him a _chance_ to try and win back her affections...!

Sitting stiffly in his desk chair, Noah let his eyes stray over the multiple data screens before him for the countless time, no longer seeing the images, themselves. He was supposed to be approving tomorrow's cargo for transport before they were taken to the Renautas hangar, but no matter how badly Erica Kravid demanded it Noah just couldn't focus on his task. The company man was long desensitized to the sight of evos being drugged and marched into their restraints, so not even that could shake his thoughts out of his upcoming plan to save the planet from elimination. Or the part his daughter had to play in it.

How long could she realistically stay mad at him? So far that had yet been put to the test, so Noah couldn't be sure. But Claire hadn't spoken to him since the disaster of the oil rig, and he was certain she had him beat in the patience game, alright. He couldn't even imagine letting months get between them without caving and getting in touch if he was in her position. Although, he had to admit, he probably would have handled the revelation that his father had lied one time too many and his uncle was fraternising with the enemy in a _very_ different way than Claire had.

In that respect, shutting herself out from her family and trying to (however truthfully) restore peace to the population was downright admirable, on Claire's part.

Still, Noah missed her more than he knew he ever could.

His thousandth call went straight to voicemail, which Noah told himself was because of the hour only. “Claire Bear... please return my calls. I don't blame you for being angry, but this isn't about that. Something very important has come up and I really need to talk to you.”

Searching for the right words, Noah removed his glasses to rub at his tired eyes with the back of his hand. There was no way to know whether she was even listening to his messages anymore, and he might have given up and let her move on by now if he didn't have solid encouragement for his efforts preserved in oil and canvas. Drawing reassurance from them, Noah cast his thoughts back to the paintings in the basement: the depictions of his master plan hadn't been far from his mind since Parkman had created the first one, and even now he could see the paintings in vivid detail despite the distance between his office and the impromptu basement gallery.

A cluster of people, a confined space, and of course a small blonde figure standing by the angular shape that was supposed to be Noah.

They _would_ be together again, someday. Maybe if Claire knew that...? But it was too much to explain over a one-sided phone call. She was one of the final pieces of the plan, and as everything else was falling into place Noah couldn't put this part off much longer, no matter how much it hurt to be ignored every time he tried to reach his daughter.

Spinning absently in his chair, Mr Bennet sighed and replaced his glasses. Then tensed as he caught sight of a shadow lingering in the doorway. “Just... think about it, sweetheart. Stay safe. I'll be in touch.” He ended the call briskly, straightening his posture from that of an exhausted middle-aged man when his guest crept into the room. “Tracy.”

“Am I interrupting?”

Noah smiled at the woman, trying to hastily pull himself back together without it being obvious. “No, I was just, uh... I thought you were leaving?” He'd dismissed Tracy hours ago. It had to be around two in the morning by now – nobody other than Noah ever stayed this late if they had the chance to escape.

Hovering by the door, the desk lamp only illuminated enough of her face to reveal the uncertainty there. And when she spoke almost as if to herself, Noah got the feeling she wasn't talking in the same respect as he had. “Yeah. So did I.”

“...Is something wrong?” He asked calmly, a sure way to tell that inside him things weren't going as peachy.

Tracy shook her head as if disregarding the idea, her blonde hair swishing. But then she really looked at Noah and stumbled over a reply, and the doubts swimming in her eyes couldn't have been clearer.

Noah had been around the block too many times not to anticipate what was coming. But that didn't mean he had to like it when nearly everything else was working out so nicely. Well, shit.

***

For a long while, there was nothing except the slowing rush of rainfall through the open window and the sound of early morning commuters on the streets far below. Peter shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, trying to believe it was the cold that was getting to him and making his eyes sting more than the airing of his recent confession.

Silence echoed out as a full stop to his tale, reverberating like the ripples in time Sylar had made last night when returning here from the future. Peter waited badly, chewing his tongue and shifting his weight on his feet and failing to stop all his doubts shining through to his face. Meanwhile Sylar slowly stewed up a response to the news of the dream and the time traveller's visit behind an unreadable mask.

He had been painfully silent the whole time Peter had been talking; only frowning more, watching, listening as the possibilities of his fate were stripped down and laid bare before him, as tenderly as Peter could muster in hopes of softening the blow. He had no idea if it had worked, other than the weight to Sylar's brow shifting from accusing to solemn.

Finally, the watchmaker's mouth twitched, and Peter's heart leapt.

“But... if it happens in six years, we still have time to work things out.” Looking through Peter, he blinked rapidly as if to align his thoughts into a manageable order, a skill that the empath both admired and envied deeply. “Why are you handing yourself over to Noah now?”

Peter shook his head, warding off phantom sensations that rolled through him from head to toe; the smell of fire, the taste of ash, the scream of silence that stretched into every corner of the world...

“Because I don't know what else to do.” He admitted painfully. “I don't. Okay? But we have to tell him what we know. If I waste this chance? If I do _nothing_?” His stomach twisted at another unwelcome vision of his future self: harsh, bedraggled, corrupted by guilt and rage and pain... “Then I'm no different than the guy I saw in my dream.”

Impressively, Sylar hadn't let go of the window while he listened to his future unfold. His stance had slackened, yet still he stood resolute, cocking his head while he squinted at Peter as if he'd just been speaking a different language. “When has Bennet ever listened to what we've had to say? What makes you think he'll believe us now? Or even _if_ he does, there's nothing stopping him from taking us down anyway once he gets the information he needs.”

“We have to _try_.” Peter insisted, wishing there wasn't so much unpleasant truth in Sylar's words. Even last night, this was the last thing he would ever have thought he'd be doing: wading into enemy territory with only faulty armour, unstable weapons and a tattered white flag. But so much had changed, even since then. “You came to me from the future for a reason, Sylar – we could be the _only_ ones who know the truth about what happens! And we can't stop it alone!”

“You said I came back to tell you to manage the Hunger.” Sylar stated, unconvinced. “You really think running out there like this this is the best way to do that?”

Peter squirmed in agitation. He hated the reminder of the sickness that he still carried within him. It made him feel unclean, molested from the inside out – but despite all this, the Hunger itself remained pointedly quiet even after he had just thought upon it. It was the confidence boost he sorely needed.

He could already hear Sylar's incoming lecture: the complaints about how it still wasn't safe for him to leave the hotel with his abilities unchecked; the matter-of-factness that preceeded a well thought out plan; and the onslaught of all the times in the past when heading off unprepared like this had only ended in failure.

He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear any of it.

“Look – this is about so much more than just me! This is about _everybody_!” Getting desperate, Peter sucessfully dislodged Sylar from the window with a nudge, not quite looking at him as he climbed outside, afraid of the expression he might find.

Out here the night pressed down upon him. The rain had dispersed into not much more than a mist now, jagged prickles and rippling puddles that reflected city lights back into the sky. Peter only ignored the raindrops that dripped down from the platform above and ran under his shirt collar.

*

Turning to watch after the other man, Sylar's hands shook on each side of the window as the rain nipped at his face and torso like needles. His head was spinning from all this new information, yet the only sensation he could feel was the heavy beat of his own heart. He was unable to look away from the distorted shape of his friend crossing the fire escape away from him.

There was far too much for Sylar to make sense of at once. Peter becoming a murderer? Sylar's future self being here last night? The end of the world? Walking themselves to the slaughter on the off chance Noah fucking Bennet would have a miraculous change or heart for once in his life...? In hindsight Peter's tearful breakdown last night seemed an even more reasonable reaction than Sylar had first believed. He couldn't blame the guy one bit.

But now that it was Sylar's turn to take the hit, he didn't have that same luxury.

“And what about me?” He called out.

The sound was swaddled by the persistant hissing of rain, pinging off metal above and around him in a whispering tune. His voice shouldn't have carried even over such a short distance, but Peter stopped anyway. He turned back with a hint of a frown sheilding his eyes and a question forming, unreleased, on his lips.

If he didn't look so humbled Sylar would have been expecting him to kick off into the sky then and there. Only as an afterthought, the repentitive killer touched along the handle of flight, keeping the ability within reach just in case.

There was so much more he wanted to say. But, shit, he could barely make a sound when Peter was such a sight before him. Sylar's chest was open and bleeding from the impact of knowledge he didn't want, but more than any of the many nightmares on the table... he yearned to understand how things between himself and Peter could have gone so wrong the first time around.

Standing right there, he was broken yet burning with the determination that became him, while water droplets sparkled as they rolled down his hair and over the angle of his cheekbones. And despite everything he had just heard, and the nasty evidence that had been leaking into their interactions for a while now; Sylar just couldn't think of that man as capable of any horror greater than if he walked out on them right now.

“Why didn't you let me in? Last time?”

*

For a moment the men just stared at each other, unspoken words solidifying in the window frame between them as if the glass was reforming itself.

The empath felt his face go numb beneath Sylar's stare and his knees go weak under him. What...? Was Sylar seriously doing this right now? He huffed a feeble gasp while precious seconds ticked by and the former killer's words settled deeper and deeper into his psyche, creeping across the surface like cracks in a mirror.

The other guy was almost unreadible, locked up tight with a sharpness to that heavy brow and a thinness to his lips, but it was the attempt to hide an emotional storm from the world that revealed he was battling one at all.

And here was Peter thinking he couldn't feel any worse.

*

With difficulty, Sylar composed his features until he hoped they revealed nothing going on inside.

Peter wasn't answering. To his credit, he appeared to be battling with the task, but what the hell did that say? Sylar didn't want to even entertain the thought, because where the fuck would he be without this? But as he looked upon the shaking, cold little hero before him, he couldn't help but recall everything the guy had chosen to shoulder by himself rather than share with him.

These doubts, they touched on an alcove within him he'd hoped had grown over by now but it hadn't, it was just hidden out of sight, collecting stray drips of uncertainty until it spilled over like a blocked drain. And the thing was flooding him now.

No matter how many times Sylar broke himself bending over backwards for Peter... would it ever be enough?

Tightening his grip on either side of the window, he fought to hide thinly veiled desperation from his tone. He was aware of his expansive skillset that could easily prevent someone from leaving if he didn't want them to. Yet the only tool he called upon was his sincerity.

“Don't you trust me?” He asked quietly.

*

Cut to the quick, Peter could only gape at the other man. How could Sylar believe that? It was obscene! Yet when he tried so hard to see into his friend, he was blocked by those carefully constructed features that looked down upon him like those of a stranger.

“Hey...” He finally managed, drawn back from the far edge of the fire escape on instinct. He forgot all about his looming escape and crossed instead to the window where his companion stood, stopping as close as the wall between them would allow. Suddenly everything else that had seemed so pressing just seconds before paled in comparison to this most gutting of blows. “How could you ask that? Of _course_ I do.”

By the way Sylar's face transformed just so, the muscles on his forearms stood out more than before and his grip on the wall tightened microscopically, Peter could tell that he didn't believe him. But, god, how was he supposed to explain it all without breaking down again?

“You let your power consume you because you didn't want me to get close.” Sylar elaborated, somehow barely moving a muscle in his face beyond the scathing twitch of an eyebrow. “That doesn't sound like trust to me.”

Peter shivered at that expression that didn't fit at all with the distress palpably rising from Sylar. He blocked the swarm of incoming thoughts that rushed him then, for his own sake and the privacy of his friend.

Yes, when Sylar said it that way it sounded awful, but _how_ could he really think that when the truth was the complete opposite? Didn't he know Peter? Had he changed his mind about him already now that he knew what was to become of their future...?

Biting his lip, Peter ran a hand through his hair that dripped raindrops into his eyes. He was cold and wet all over, and seriously beginning to regret his hasty exit from the shelter of the hotel room. But there was so much more at risk here than his comfort. If there wasn't, would he really have been putting himself through all this and turn to Noah Bennet of all people, for the sake of everyone else? For Sylar? For Sylar who was right in front of him now, at the centre of the storm, whose feelings were suddenly much more important than preventing an apocalypse?

Helplessly, Peter reached out and pounded a hand lightly against the warmth of Sylar's chest, as if that was going to solve everything. “I just...”

The last thing he wanted was to fight with this man after being soothed to sleep by the rhythm of his heartbeat just hours ago. Peter rested his fist over that same heart now, before promptly withdrawing it, scalded by the memory of watching himself do the same thing in the future. God it was so real. So true. So possible...

“I don't wanna hurt you.” He confessed.

It didn't matter that Sylar was angry at him, that he had every right to be and that Peter probably shouldn't have chosen this time of all times to let his limbs take over. He was craving human contact and still reaping the after effects of sleeping so close to Sylar yesterday, and so reached for him again anyway.

Teeth beginning to chatter in the cold, Peter watched his hands move by themselves: trailing wet strands of hair off Sylar's face and tucking them back into their usual groomed, proud place; then grazing his knuckles along the man's stubbled jaw on the way down to savour the absence of a beard. He received not even a twitch in response, but that wasn't why he'd done it anyway.

“All this...? I just don't wanna put it on you. Not you. After how hard you worked to get better.”

It ached to do it, but it was beyond time to regurgitate this fear that had ignited in Peter along with his restored abilities, making itself known before they'd even left Mercy Heights hospital.

All he'd wanted was to spare Sylar from the pain his powers might bestow. That was why he'd pushed back the dread since the explosion, refused to acknowledge the Hunger and put his all into his lessons and in recovering. But in the end, why had he bothered? What difference did it make? Because trying to help by pulling away had only ended in disaster anyway.

*

If Peter thought all these touches were going to get him out of trouble he had another thing coming. The contact melted short bursts of sensation into Sylar's face and his chest sizzled in the afterprint of the other guy's hand, but he didn't cave in the way he knew he was supposed to.

It was all part of the game, another Petrelli trick, another manipulation tactic to play innocent and try to win Sylar over – but he was fucking sick of assuming that role. Just look at how far it had gone. How many billions of people had paid the price...

“...You don't think I could handle the temptation.” He realised, letting his arms fall numbly by his sides. Appalled, he held himself tall and struggled to swallow while he witnessed the other evo drop his eyes and hug himself and wipe what might not have been a stray raindrop from his face.

“No, Sylar...”

Visibly shivering now, Peter swiped at his hair before peeking back up, face soft in resignation while weilding the most deadly weapon of those eyes of his. So large, so sincere, so empathetic. So difficult to turn down. Fuck him, once more.

“I just didn't want you to see this part of me.” He yielded at last, his jaw working tightly. “No one else has ever thought of me the way you do. And I just didn't – didn't wanna ruin that.” Peter sighed again, and the wind carried the strained huskiness of his confession twice around the fire escape before it reached Syar's ear. “'Cause I can't do this without you, and I thought, if... if you knew what I was capable of? ...You might not lov-” The rest of the word failed him in a stutter, so instead he just gave up, watching Sylar in a silent plea as if that was honestly the best he could do.

Uneven gasping was loud in Sylar's ears long before he identified the sound as his own. All the different fragments of this declaration made their way to him through spitting rain, piling on top of each other over his ribcage until it was almost impossible to breathe.

Finally he located his voice. “Are you _that_ stupid?” He spat incredulously.

Peter reeled on the spot slightly, wounded, but other than that made no attempt to rise to the bait and fight. And right then, in the face of their many failures, some of which were even yet to transpire: Sylar only resented him for it.

Fucking _seriously_?! He really was the most selfishly selfless person in the world. If Sylar didn't know him himself he would never have believed it. Peter was an idiot! Peter was deluded! He was the most clueless, self-deprecating son of a bitch on the planet! Shaking his head hopelessly, Sylar flailed his arms out wide while the rush of an emotion that felt dangerously similar to outrage devoured him from the inside.

“Jesus, Peter! What d'you think this is?! What the hell have I been _doing_ all this time?!”

The new flash of hurt that cracked across the empath's face then should have derailed him, but Sylar wasn't just upset anymore. And he couldn't hold back the intensity of his cries even though the recipient was still standing close enough to touch.

“D'you seriously think I'd have put up with your bullshit and recklessness for so long if I didn't want to be here?! D'you think I'd let the world end for just _anyone_?!”

That last statement ripped itself free from the watchmaker before he'd had a chance to edit it, startling himself by how raw it was, how personal a truth, and he'd just thrown it out there for everyone to hear. He couldn't take it back. But the longer it expanded and settled between two racing hearts, the less he wished he could.

*

Peter couldn't move beneath the burn that started to heat him from within. To his own surprise he wasn't angry or defensive in the face of such a verbal attack. Not at all. He was just awed, really and truly, to see Sylar so passionate and alive right before him, especially in contrast to how wasted away he had become in another life...

When Sylar stopped to catch his breath, licking his lips just like his future incarnation had last night, Peter was wrung into pieces by the countless reminder that it really _had_ been him on the rooftop last night and in that broken building in the dream, that the touch of heat that still burned on his forehead had come from those very same lips.

And how had Peter repaid him for everything he'd done? By actively refusing the advice he'd risked it all to come back here to give.

_Let me in, Peter. Please._

Peter knew he could escape all this with one thought. In just seconds he could fly into the sky, away from Sylar and this confrontation and his own feelings, and bury himself in a new mission.

But here was his only friend, yelling at him, confessing these things with a depth of endearment Peter had only seen from him once before. Mere hours ago.

_Because you're my friend. I love you._

The air grew tight around the empath, filled by the sound of rain and quiet breathing as the two men stared each other down from inches away. He just couldn't believe Sylar would willingly sacrifice his freedom purely to share Peter's burden. That was _twice_ now on Peter's count. If sticking with him once could be considered heroic; twice was downright foolish – especially when he knew what it might entail. It was also an act of pure devotion that Peter had never received from anyone else in his life.

And it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

“Stop pushing me away as if you have any right to make my choices for me, 'cause you _don't._ ” Sylar's voice trembled slightly despite his best efforts to hide it, and even through the anger that had inflicted his features and transformed him into a remnant of the fearsome specimen he'd used to be, he looked as though he might cry. “You told me you need my help to change the future? Then _let_ me help you!”

Stunned, Peter could only nod his head. Meanwhile, Sylar was still glaring at him as if he was waiting for an inevitable first punch to come his way, those deep, dark eyes darting apprehensively between Peter's as the morning continued to stretch on between them.

But Peter didn't want to hit him.

He wanted to...

With no remorse and no regrets, he turned his back on his desperate plan, on the future, on finding Noah and any thoughts that revolved around how he might change his fate for the better. Because this was real, and it was _now_ , and because the urge to do so was so overwhelming he might die otherwise, Peter reached for the back of the other man's head, tugged him down before he could lose his nerve and gently captured his lips in a kiss.

Sylar tensed against him. He clammed up all over while Peter's limbs lost feeling and he rocked slightly, waiting, not breathing, just pressing his mouth to the plush cushion of Sylar's because it was the only way he could convey everything he couldn't say to the man. Oh god.

He tasted like rain and he smelled so familiar, so comforting, and Peter would swear he was literally hovering right then if he wasn't so aware of the height difference that remained between himself and this man who loved him. Something clicked into place inside and finally it made sense: the growing, gnawing tendrils of feelings that Peter hadn't been able to get rid of since before Sylar had taken his hands, held him in close and exploded with him over New York City...

This. This was what he'd been waiting for.

But when time refused to stop around the pair, and all that Sylar gave in return was a quivering breath, the flurry of sparks in Peter's gut grew erratic. Suddenly insecurity reared its ugly head and doubt began to creep its way in.

What if he'd been wrong? What if he'd made a mistake? What if Sylar didn't want this too...?

Dropping down from his tip toes, he pulled back with just a sliver of space remaining between his face and the other man's. The weight of rejection marred his movements as he forced his gaze to stray from those naturally pouted lips and glance up for any sign of Sylar's feelings, just in time to see him open his eyes.

With anyone else it would have been humiliating to have put himself out there and been shot down, but it wasn't now. Not with Sylar. Peter could only remember to breathe and hold himself up while Sylar just looked down at him; his eyes roving, his expression slipping between so many emotions that it became clear he wasn't sure whether he should still be angry or not.

Craving affection, reciprocation, reassurance, both Peter's hands came to rest on each side of Sylar's head, kneading his hair softly. They trembled just a little.

*

Godammit. Sylar knew he should have been mad that Peter had just cheated to win their fight, but he wasn't.

He wasn't finished ranting, he had barely began to put the little fucker in his place, not to mention get started on the disaster of the Noah plan...! But none of that mattered anymore. Not when Peter had the audacity to kiss him so sweetly and then look at him like that.

So many kisses in Sylar's life had been weapons disguised to hurt him. There had even been a time when he couldn't disassociate intimacy with betrayal. It had never been real, it had never been anything close to what he'd wanted, what he'd been yearning for. But with Peter... When all there was in the world was his own throbbing heartbeat, the aftertaste of cold little lips, the lingering tickle of eyelashes on his cheeks and the wetness from someone else's hair having been stuck to his skin, Sylar couldn't even remember the rest of his argument that had been building before the other guy had gone and lifted it clean out of his grasp.

Blinking in the spitting rain, he let his gaze roam freely over the unapologetic young man who was to blame for all of this, the first touches of dawn highlighting his face just for Sylar to see him in a new light. A wash of lilac caught his eyes and reflected in the rainwater on his skin, shining on his slightly parted lips in places Sylar could still taste... Fuck. When had Peter gone and become so beautiful? It was either the coiling sensation behind Sylar's navel talking, or he had been suppressing the thought as inappropriate for so long that he had actually forgotten to notice. Either way, it wasn't important. Not when his vision was finally clear and the truth was undeniable and shining before him now.

He had almost given up hope.

After waiting all this time, after enduring mixed signals and shifting rules and the frustration that accompanied being afraid to be the one to change things, Sylar had come _that_ close to accepting this was just a part of the world these two superhumans weren't going to be sharing with one another. In fact it was only now, with the caress of Peter's fingers against his scalp and the tingle of intimate touch still lingering on his mouth that Sylar was reminded exactly what they'd been depriving themselves of.

And after surviving on nothing but laden glances, meaningful touches and poorly disguised flirting for so long, he wasn't quite sure how to feel about the kiss that still sizzled on his lips.

Other than it wasn't enough for him. Not even close. Not after all this time.

Now that the boundaries had already been breached, he indulged in his desires and lightly touched Peter's waist and face with hands he pretended weren't shaking. Still frowning, lost in so many years of competing, conflicting, corrupting emotions for this particular human being, Sylar lightly stroked the tips of his fingers down Peter's temple. It didn't feel out of place to allow himself such luxuries after going without all this time.

He could still turn back. He knew he could put an end to this right now and everything would go back to normal tomorrow. Except he didn't _want_ things to go back to normal. He wanted _more_.

Sylar pushed back the cool wetness of the other guy's hair, thick and soft, so that he could see everything that waited for him to find in those eyes. “Damn you, Petrelli.” He murmured.

An apologetic, crooked little twitch of Peter's lips responded to Sylar's evaluation. Then his eyebrows lifted softly and he seared Sylar's face with the slightest brush of his thumb. “You're right. I've been pushing you away, and I'm sorry.” He husked. And when his next whisper tickled the air between the men, the ground fell out from under Sylar in a way he had almost forgotten was possible. “But what if... what if we forget about the future? Just for tonight?” A vision of pure hope and innocence and nerves, Peter became so painfully irresistible that Sylar could only think of it as criminal.

And suddenly he understood why he would ever let billions of people die.

It was this. Right here. He would do anything to have Peter look at him like this. To feel appreciated, wanted, to feel important when he had been struggling to deserve that right for most of his life. Peter Petrelli didn't need all the power in the world, or to threaten or fight to get his way – not when he was the most perfect, beautiful weapon all on his own. And maybe that was the most dangerous thing of all?

But the world wasn't ending for another six years, right? And what if this was what Sylar's future self had come back for anyway? What if this was what he'd meant all along when he'd begged Peter to let him in so they could help each other...? Sylar chose to think so.

He couldn't voice a reply. Instead, he stroked across Peter's hip where the wet shirt had risen and the skin was cold and bare, a tiny relenting smile easing its way onto his features before he threw in the towel altogether.

Yes, Sylar was well aware that this mentality had cost them the world in the future. And maybe that was worse than Peter's downfall and worse than Sylar letting him get to that state in the first place. Because this time, despite knowing what was at risk: when he descended again, and when Peter's body grew heavier against his own... he didn't care at all.

*

With a gentle tug of lips, suddenly Sylar was receptive and careful and he kissed Peter back with so much need it made the empath feel weak. Tentative at first, the former enemies moulded themselves around each other far too easily, so many thoughts and feelings pouring into this safe space of their creation, where all the things they hadn't been saying and all the times they'd refused what they'd wanted were welcomed and cherished between them.

Entwined through the open window, the pair swayed on the fire escape when the world was at stake and where anyone could see them, but they didn't care. Sylar curved into Peter with the strong line of his body, burning his face between slow but insistent lips, hot breath against his and steadying hands that perfectly fit imprints that the time traveler had left behind last night, and Peter could only cling onto him in return. And although the wind still tugged at his hair and the rain crept down him in rivulets, he wasn't cold anymore.

It had been far too long since he'd been held like this by someone. He'd almost forgotten how it felt.

Oh god... fuck... Just holding someone in his arms cleansed stains of neglect that had been forming inside for months now, and when the tip of Sylar's tongue welcomed Peter's it sent sparks erupting all the way through him, healing scars that had been left untouched for far too long. He couldn't dream of resisting the fire that formed, ravenous, in the space where his quickening breaths mixed with Sylar's, where their racing hearts beat against one another's, and in every slight nuzzle of his nose against the other man's.

Peter didn't manage to stifle the sound that uttered from his throat, but it was worth the slip up to hear the breathy chuckle that purred against his lips.

The dripping rain was persistent but so was Sylar; his kisses grew deeper, more desperate, and his hands scorched like fire against the chill of Peter's wet clothing, painting colours across his skin where they crept over his shoulders and down his back, holding him firmly but gently, as if he was something special. It tasted just as beautiful as it felt for Peter to let go. To trust. To let himself fall and be put back together piece by piece at the hands of this dedicated craftsman who needed to give just as much as the empath needed to receive. And when Sylar helped Peter climb blindly into the privacy of the room without breaking apart for air, he had no choice but to feel completely safe here with him.

For the first time in hours, he couldn't think about the future, his fate, or saving the world. He didn't even try to mask his heaving chest or the blush he knew Sylar could feel blooming across his face and torso, just as Peter could feel his. There was nowhere to hide and no reason to do so anyway.

And maybe that would be enough to save him.

***

Two sets of footsteps rebounded around the concrete corridor, the click of high heels competing with a woman's anxious voice.

“...after the explosion in New York? It's sort of a wake up call when it comes to these abilities.”

“This has always been the case, Tracy. Most of you are harmless but some need to be contained, it's why our work here is so important.” Noah didn't look at her while he battled to keep condescention out of his tone. “Do I need to remind you this was in the job description when you agreed to work with me?”

“You said you were gonna help me _control_ my power.” Tracy retorted, half a step behind Noah as he refused to slow down to reassure her. He had always been a good multi-tasker if nothing else, anyway. But he didn't have to try and convince her with words, not if she would only _see_... “And now you're asking me to do _this_? What part of 'I dont want to hurt people anymore' are you not understanding?”

Bristling at her attitude, Noah let it slide if only because his ally was already slipping from his grasp and he didn't want to give her another reason to pack it all in and leave him in the lurch. Slowing to a stop with a hand on the cell door, he turned to Tracy with what he could honestly say was genuine sympathy.

“I understand how you're feeling, Tracy. But Petrelli and Sylar aren't like you, or Micah, or Jeremy.” An old pang of regret struck Noah for the kid he'd failed to save with Tracy. It had been one of their first jobs together. Her expression hardened in memory. “We've been over this. They're too dangerous. And you could be part of saving billions of lives by taking them in.”

He didn't wait for her reply before swiping his card at the security panel and letting the door grind open with a _clunk_. “What've you got for me, Matt?” He asked, unable to hide his enthusiasm. Tracy's heels clacking off the floor told him she followed him inside the renovated cell: now unrecognisable beneath so many of Parkman's paintings. The artist himself was still at work, but either due to their arrival or just perfect timing, began to rouse from his latest prophetic stupor.

“How do you even know this plan will work, anyway?” Tracy asked behind Noah, the added 'after every other one hasn't' hung stagnantly although she didn't say it aloud.

Normally Noah would have been disheartened at that. But not now.

“Tell me _this_ doesn't inspire confidence.” He smiled smugly, gesturing to the collection Parkman had been creating for nearly a week now, filling in all the gaps in his master plan nearly faster than Noah could think them up.

The location; the subjects; the conspirators; even the element of surprise had been depicted taking hold in Noah's favour... After months of failure after failure after failure, it would be an understatement to say that he was enjoying the satisfaction of seeing his grand victory foretold to him for a change. Not to mention the relief! It wasn't like Erica Kravid could dismiss this, after all. The novelty still hadn't worn off. In fact it only grew with every new addition to the gallery.

But before he could even peer past a freshly woken Parkman at his latest masterpiece, the ex cop released a humourless scoff, as if he wasn't surprised in the slightest. “You gotta be kiddin' me.”

Fearing his successful streak was about to be cut short, Noah crunched hurriedly across discarded sheets of paper to set eyes upon the painting –

Only for any and all expressions to fall from his face. Because, no, Matt hadn't just put the finishing touches on a fatal fault in Noah's masterplan, thank god. But that's not to say the image before him was one he couldn't have happily lived without. He could only stare in displeasure at the scene he should really have been more shocked by than he was:

Two familiar silhouettes against an open window, locked at the mouth with arms cradling each other, their shadows stretching long across a dilapidated hotel room, projecting the whole affair onto the floor.

Noah choked on anything he might have said, if he'd been able to make a sound at all. He'd almost completely forgotten about showing off his plan to Tracy, why he was here and who he was here with. Until she came to a stop beside him, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

“Well _that's_ inspiring.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I have a feeling that I don't need telepathy to tell what you guys are thinking? “Finally!” XD
> 
> Hehe true, but nobody is shouting it more than me – I can't believe we're FINALLY here! I've been desperately working towards getting to this point and trying not to spoil it for two long years, and hopefully I managed to preserve it a little ^.^ After so much build up and planning I'll admit it took me a long time to get this moment right, but I hope it lived up to expectations! X) Of course I'm always eager to hear what you guys think (especially of this particular development that's been a looong time coming)
> 
> Thank you more than I can say if you're still reading and have stuck with my story so far! I can promise there is still more angst, adventure, emotion and Petlar goodness to come from here on out, so please stay tuned ^.^


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